The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell - A Figment Story

[legendsport]

Chicago, IL: June 29, 1929:

"Here ya are, kid," the taxi driver said as he braked to a stop at the corner of Ashland and Washington.

Fred Barrell paid the cabbie, tipping him generously (Fred was in a very generous mood at the moment). Then he stepped out of the cab and looked up at the concrete and steel ballpark. He glanced at his watch, and saw that it was just after 11. He was early, but that was fine by him. Behind him, he could the sound of bat on ball... kids playing Saturday morning baseball in Union Park. Fred smiled. He was here to play baseball too. Only he was getting paid to do it.

He had gotten the word two days ago.

The Milwaukee Blues were at home, wrapping up a three-game set with the Minneapolis Lumberjacks. The 'Jacks had come out fast and looked like they'd be the class of the AAA Century League. Milwaukee? Not so much. Still, Fred himself was enjoying a good first year in AAA. He was the starting catcher, was hitting over .300 and he had celebrated his promotion from AA Mobile in April by asking Tillie Hobart to marry him. She'd agreed and the wedding would be in October. Fred figured to be busy until about then.

He was sitting in his locker stall, talking with Slim Bloom. He and Slim, a shortstop, had become friends having played together in both Lincoln and Mobile as they climbed the Cougars' ladder together. Unlike Fred, who had been a first-round pick, Slim had been a 13th-round flier back in 1923 out of high school in New York City. He had been amused to find that Fred had been born in Brooklyn, given his noticeably Georgian accent. Slim, born and raised in the Bronx, had an equally noticeable accent of his own, distinctly New York in nature.

They were good-naturedly ribbing each other when Fred, pulling his sanitary sock off his left foot, noticed that a shadow had fallen across his locker. Given the stark (and spare) lighting in the Blues' clubhouse, Fred knew this meant someone was standing behind him.

When the shadow spoke his name, Fred stood up, one sock on, one off and turned.

Herbert Styles, the Blues' skipper, stood there, thumbs hooked into the belt of his uniform. He wore a bemused look on his face. Styles was a by-the-book guy. He was also British-born and though he'd been in the States for well over four decades, there was still a trace of the ol' Blighty in his speech.

Styles cast a serious look at Slim. "Give us a moment, if you please, Mr. Bloom," he said. Slim raised his eyebrows, grabbed a towel and headed for the shower, still wearing his uniform pants. "Be sure to take those pants off before you shower, Mr. Bloom," Styles said with a twinkle in his eye. Slim raised a hand in reply.

Styles turned his gaze back towards Fred. "Well, Mr. Barrell, it seems you must have friends in high places," he said.

Fred raised his eyebrows. "How so, skip?"

Styles smiled. "I just had a call from Mr. Y, down in Chicago," Styles said. Fred smiled, he also found it funny to hear someone say "down" when talking about Chicago, but Milwaukee was north of the Windy City. He also knew that Mr. Y was a reference to the Cougars GM.

"Pack your gear, Mr. Barrell, you are Chicago-bound." Styles thrust out his right hand. "Congratulations. I don't expect I shall see you back here."

Fred shook his manager's hand. "Thank you, sir," he said with a wide grin on his face. The grin dropped away and he continued, "I sure hope you're right."

"Oh, I'm certain you'll acquit yourself well, Barrell," Styles continued. The manager himself had played at the game's top level, and even in Chicago - albeit with the Chiefs - when the Century League was a major league before the FABL organization had been created.

The next 36 hours had been a blur. Packing up, saying goodbye to his friends, receiving a celebratory telegram from Clyde Hinzman, himself a Cougars farmhand, but currently in Mobile. Ironically, Clyde was stuck behind Slim Bloom as both were shortstops. Then he'd received his train ticket for the relatively short ride to Chicago. He'd spoken with his father - a joyous moment for both. Rufus had passed along the news that Jack and Marie had another daughter whom they'd named Vera, in honor of Alice's late mother, who had been Jack's guardian in his youth in Montreal.

Fred thought about Danny making it to Brooklyn for a cup of coffee the year before. But he was now back in AAA (though in the Union League playing for Rochester) and seemed unlikely to get the call this season. Fred also spoke to the Cougars GM. He'd been told that the starting job was his to lose. That was a lot more than Danny had received the previous season when he'd gotten a handful of September at-bats (and hit a meager .125).

Then he'd called Tillie. "Don't mess this up, Freddie," she'd told him.

Now he was here. As he stood on the sidewalk, holding his bag, he noted that he was getting funny looks from the Chicagoans who were walking past him. "I must look like a country bumpkin staring up at a big league ballpark," he thought. Then he swung himself into motion, heading for the door marked "Chicago Cougars Administrative Offices."

He'd reported to the GM's secretary (the boss himself hadn't yet arrived at the park). She'd directed him to the clubhouse where he met the clubhouse manager, was given a stall in the cramped clubhouse and handed a uniform. He sat down on the stool in front of his locker. The clubhouse was smaller than he expected but then he remembered that North Side Park had been built in 1903 and though it had been renovated, the bowels of the structure hadn't gotten any larger. He dropped his bag and picked up the jersey. He ran his fingers across the 'C' in "Cougars" sewn on the front. Then he shook it out and looked at the number on the back.

"Oh boy," he muttered and shook his head.

The next couple of hours passed in a blur. The GM had popped in, welcomed him to the team, and disappeared to wherever FABL GMs went to watch their teams. He'd met the manager, Hank Sims, who was much friendlier than Fred expected him to be, and a smattering of his team mates. Some had approached him and welcomed him to the club - this included Bill Ashbaugh, who though only a couple of years older than Fred, was probably the best player on the team, and even Barney Green, the catcher whose job he was essentially claiming.

When it came to one player, Fred couldn't help himself. He stared into the corner of the clubhouse where John Dibblee quietly went about his business. Now 40 years old, Dibblee was a legend. He'd hit over .400 twice, had over 3500 hits and had recently collected his 500th career triple. "The Top Cat" as he was known, was a career Cougar - he'd joined the team as a 17-year-old back in 1906. And he just kept on hitting.

Fred watched out of the corner of his eye, noting that no one bothered Dibblee. The only one to approach him was the trainer. He handed him a tube of something, which Dibblee took, quietly thanked the trainer, and then squeezed some ointment from the tube and rubbed it into the small of his back. "Dibs did something to his back on Thursday," Fred heard from the stall next to his. He glanced over at third baseman Mack Deal - like Fred a youngster the team was high on. Deal smirked. "It's not easy getting old, you know?"

Fred chuckled. "So I've heard. But you and me? We're too young to worry about that just yet," he replied. Deal nodded slowly.

Dibblee rose, buckled his belt and stretched. Then he walked towards the exit. As he passed Fred he patted him on the shoulder, said, "Welcome aboard, kid," and sauntered away, limping slightly.

"I feel like I've just been knighted or something," Fred told Deal. The third sacker laughed.

"Well, if there's any such thing as baseball royalty... Dibblee's it," Deal replied.

Fred was on deck in the second inning, taking a few swings and preparing for his first FABL at-bat when he heard, "Hey, thirteen! Over here!" from behind him.

For a moment he frowned. Thirteen? Then he remembered that yes, 13 was the number that the Cougars clubhouse guy had given him.

He turned around and there she was, sitting in the first row and leaning on the rail.

"Tillie? How the hell you'd get here?" Fred asked with a wide grin.

"Well, Fred Barrell, I just had to come see my favorite ballplayer make his big league debut," she replied with a wide smile. "How about a kiss for good luck?" she teased.

Before Fred could reply he heard the sound of bat on ball. Art Panko had just put the ball in play. It was time.

He tipped his head at his fiancee, grinned and said, "Time to go to work!"

"Go get 'em Tiger... I mean Cougar," Tillie shot back and then laughed.

.

[ayaghmour2]

Great write up as always! Love seeing the former Cougars personified and the Dibblee line about how he "sauntered away, limping slightly." is just perfect.

[legendsport]

Berkeley, CA: July 4, 1929:

"I thought the weather was supposedly pleasant here?" Bobby Barrell complained. The mercury had to be pushing triple-digits as he stood on the first base line with his team mates. He pulled the cap off his head and mopped the sweat off his brow.

Independence Day festivities were well underway at Berkeley Community Stadium, home of the Philadelphia Keystones' Class B affiliate Berkeley Bears.

"The only people I think have it worse than us are those high school kids," Bobby heard from his left. The speaker was Jim Webb, the 23-year-old first baseman who had clouted a C-O-W League record 59 homers the year before and was displaying prodigious power again... but for some reason seemed destined to never climb the ladder to the top. Sitting on top of the Keystones' pyramid of first basemen was, of course, Rankin Kellogg.

Bobby looked at the Berkeley High School Marching Band, and yeah, his heart went out to them. As someone who just a year before had been in high school himself, Bobby could relate to the sweating band members whose uniforms were certainly warmer than the wool baseball uniform he and his team mates were wearing. And to make matters worse, they had those, tall, feather-bedecked whatchamacallits on their heads.

"What are those hats called?" Bobby asked Webb.

"I think they're called 'shakos' or something. Looks like something Napoleon's army would have worn," Webb replied. Webb, though only 23, was one of the older players on the team and was also surprisingly intelligent for a ballplayer (Bobby had already run into some astonishingly dim players in his short career). Most guys knew - and cared - about three things: baseball, food, and girls - and not necessarily in that order.

The mayor led everyone in the Pledge of Allegiance, followed by a large and sweat-drenched woman from the Chamber of Commerce belting out a slightly off-key rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner" and then finally everyone was able to get off the field and Bobby and his team mates sought out the shade of the dugout while the club's ancient groundskeeper made a cursory sweep of the infield dirt which had been somewhat scarred by the marching band.

Bobby sighed and asked, "Just how hot is it, anyway?"

Webb and third baseman Fred Boyer looked at each other. They both shrugged, but Webb ventured a guess. "I'd say maybe a hundred."

"I'm from Georgia, and it gets hot there too. But this is like a blast oven," Bobby complained.

"Ah... you're young. Shut up, quit complaining and let's take it out on the Mounties. The sun's just as hot on those fellows as it is on us."

Bobby swallowed. This salvo had been fired from the lips of the team's manager, Howie Williams. Williams was a grumpy, cantakerous cuss who had been demoted from Class A Allentown and liked taking it out on his players.

Bobby nodded and then looked at Webb and rolled his eyes. Webb's mouth was set in a straight line - he didn't like Williams and the feeling was mutual. If it wasn't for a direct order out of the GM's office in Philly, Webb, despite his power, probably would be sitting on the bench most days. Howie Williams was a disciple of the "dead ball" style of play. His favorite saying was "Get 'em on, move 'em over. I learned that from Walter Love, and that man won over 2000 games in FABL."

After hearing this for the umpeenth time, Webb had whispered to Bobby, "Howie sure learned a lot from Love when he had a total of 19 at-bats in the FABL."

"Alright, quit yer lollygaggin' and get out there to warm up," Williams bellowed.

Webb to Bobby: "I'm pretty warm already... how about you, kid?"

Bobby fought down a guffaw, grabbed his glove and ran up the steps and out to centerfield.

Bobby had been enjoying a somewhat meteoric rise. The 'Stones had started him in Class C, which was the typical landing spot for an 18-year-old kid just out of high school. Bobby had lasted a little over a month in Beaumont. In 33 games and 133 at-bats, he'd hit .436 with 9 homers and 42 RBIs. So he'd been promoted to Berkeley, going from the heat & humidity of the Texas Gulf Coast to the supposedly temperate climate of the San Francisco Bay area. His average was nearly .400 here too, and he continued to hit the ball hard... and far.

Bobby was hitting third, with Boyer ahead of him and Webb behind him. The trio were precisely not the type of player Howie Williams wanted - they all could hit the ball in the air and over the fence. But they produced a lot of runs. The Bears were neck-and-neck with the Salem Warriors for the most runs scored in the league.

The Vancouver Mounties went down in order in the top of the first. Bobby watched the Mounties pitcher warmup and then studied him through the at-bats of both leadoff man Charlie Parker and then Fred Boyer. Parker reached on an error and stole second... which was exactly the kind of baseball Howie Williams wanted to be playing. Boyer, trying to go deep, struck out and Bobby could almost hear Williams' teeth grinding from his perch on the dugout steps behind Bobby.

Bobby stepped up to the plate. The pitcher was a first-round pick himself, drafted 13th overall by Toronto a year before Bobby had been drafted. His name was Bill Anderson and though he wasn't a big guy (5'9), he threw hard. Which wasn't necessarily a problem in Bobby's eyes: he loved a fastball with some giddyup on it. When you hit one of those good, it tended to land really far away. The bad news was that he threw eight different pitches - something Bobby hadn't ever really seen before. Not all of them worked all that well, though, so he figured that was to his benefit. Still, he hoped for a diet of fastballs.

Anderson scowled, rocked, and fired a sizzling fastball that caught the outside corner. Bobby kept the bat on his shoulder. "Nice pitch," he muttered to himself.

The next pitch was a curveball, outside again, and this time it missed to even the count.

Bobby took a deep breath and figured - hoped - Anderson would try to come middle-in with a fastball.

He did, and Bobby was ready for it. The pitch was a good one, it had a bit of a tailing action to it, so Bobby didn't connect as well as he would have liked. Still, he made a solid connection and drilled a rising liner towards right-center. It split the outfielders and Bobby busted it out of the box. He knew it wasn't going out, but it did hit the wall with an audible "thunk" sound. Parker steamed around third as Bobby made the turn at first. The right fielder, a guy named Ed Day, grabbed the ball and fired it towards second. Bobby came in hard, feet-first and spikes up. He wasn't trying to spike anyone, but Howie Williams had a rule: "you slide, your top foot better be up to keep the infielder honest" and Bobby had learned not to disobey the skipper. The throw sailed over the second baseman and came to the shortstop on a single hop. Bobby and the ball arrived at nearly the same time in a cloud of dust. He felt his foot connect with the glove and the ball was dislodged, rolling away. He heard the ump bellow "Safe!" and popped up, clapping his hands.

He saw Webb, walking to the plate, give him a small nod of appreciation. And best of all, Howie Williams was smiling at him from the top step of the dugout. Then he spat at his feet and the habitual scowl returned to his face.

From there the Berkeley Bears rolled to victory. Webb homered, Bobby went 3-for-4 and scored two runs to go along with his RBI in a 4-0 win that even put a smile on Howie Williams' face.

After the game, Webb said to Bobby, "Send me a telegram when you get to Allentown, ok kid?"

Bobby laughed and shook his head, but Webb turned out to be right. Two weeks later, Bobby was on the train, crossing the continent on his way to the Class A Allentown Cokers.

.

[legendsport]

Detroit, MI: July 20, 1929:

"This is nice!" Harry Barrell exclaimed. He had been the first through the revolving door, with Tommy and then their father emerging.

The rotunda was appointed in marble and a large, golden chandelier hung in the center of the enormous space, dangling high overhead, each of it's 16 lighted globes shaped as baseballs.

"One for every club in the FABL," Rufus explained as he pointed to the chandelier.

"Feels more like a theater than a ballpark," Tom groused. While Harry was enthusiastic about this trip, Tommy would rather be back in Georgia with his latest "lady friend" as their mother termed them. Tommy was mowing through girls even faster than he was batters as one of the top-ranked collegiate pitchers. Rufus figured his seventh son would be drafted no lower than third in the December draft.

"Eddie Thompson doesn't do things by halves," Rufus pointed out.

The round room featured a series of doors, twelve in all. Eight of them went into the ballpark itself while the others went to various offices and in one case, a janitorial closet (this last portal was suitably unlabeled - and locked).

"So which one of these doors goes to Rollie's office?" Tommy asked. One of the few benefits - in his eyes - to this trip was the opportunity to see his favorite brother.

"He's got an office in the Dynamos management suite." Rufus pointed to a door with gold leaf lettering reading "Detroit Dynamos Baseball Club Administrative Offices."

Harry whistled softly. "That's a mouthful. Probably took someone a full day to paint that on there."

Tommy started walking towards the door. "Come on, let's go see Mr. Big Shot Barrell."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Rufus Barrell as I live and breathe!"

Rufus spun on his heel and a wide grin crossed his face. "Mr. Theobald! How are you, sir?"

FABL's winningest manager, George Theobald, was now in his late sixties, but was the picture of ruddy health. He was stick-thin, tall and carried an air of solid dependability. He shook hands with Rufus, his grip firm and his left hand squeezing Rufus' shoulder. "My dear fellow, it's been far too long," he said in his warm baritone voice.

"It sure has," Rufus replied with a genuine smile. Theobald was one of the best men in the game, in every sense of the word. He introduced his sons. Theobald shook his head and said, "You are truly blessed, my friend to have such an embarrassment of riches in your children."

Harry spoke up - he couldn't help himself. "That's true. He's got a Tarzan, a team owner, a hockey player and a slew of baseball players..."

Theobald laughed. "Yes. Obviously I know your brother Roland. Joseph as well, though I haven't seen him in a while," a slight, barely discernable frown crossed the old gentleman's features as he spoke about Joe. Rufus knew that Theobald was likely fully aware that his daughter's third son was fathered by Joe, but being the gentleman he was, would never publically acknowledge this. "I've met John as well and have heard good things about Daniel. Frederick I have not met, though I hear he is acquitting himself well over in that other league..." A small jibe at the Continental Association. Theobald had played for various teams, including a couple of CA clubs, but his management career had, aside from a single year piloting the New York Stars, been entirely in the Federal, running the Boston and Detroit clubs, and winning eight pennants and four World Championships along the way.

"If I recall correctly, you were briefly a Chicago Cougar yourself, sir," Tommy said.

Theobald's bushy eyebrows shot upward. "Ah, do I see a baseball historian before me?" He asked. "I did indeed play for the Cougars. For one season, that is, and I hardly played."

Down the hall, Rufus saw Rollie's head pop out of a doorway. "And there's my wayward son," he said, nodding towards Rollie.

Theobald spun around. "Yes, indeed. Young Roland is quite impressive. We only see him for a few months each year, but he certainly keeps his football club in fine fettle."

Rollie joined them. He politely greeted Theobald before hugging and backslapping his brothers and shaking hands with his father.

"I'll let you fellows catch up. I need to speak with Mr. Pozza about something," Theobald said and shook hands with Rufus again. He nodded to the others and walked off towards the clubhouse.

"That's gotta be tough," Rollie said.

"What's that?" Rufus asked.

"Being Dick Pozza," Rollie began, then explained. "Here he is, managing the Dynamos. He's got a World Championship on his resume from the '23 Eagles. But now he's running Detroit where he has the greatest manager of all-time as his owner."

"I thought Eddie Thompson was the owner," Tommy said.

Rufus spoke up. "He is. Well, he's the majority owner. He has 55 percent of the team. Theobald owns about 40 percent and, as a baseball man, he has much more of a hand in the baseball side of things. Thompson is a businessman, first and foremost."

Rollie touched his nose. "Dead on, Pop," he said. Then he looked at Tom and Harry and said, "Hey, let's go get some lunch, eh?"

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After lunch, the quartet returned to Thompson Field. Theobald had provided them with seats behind the home dugout for the afternoon game against the visiting Chicago Chiefs. The two clubs had already shown that they were the class of the Federal Association in 1929. The Chiefs were coming off a pennant win in '28 and the dynamic duo of 3B Joe Masters (56 homers in '28) and LF Jim Hampton were enjoying solid years again while young 1B Bob Martin gave them a third threat. But the buzz around the Chiefs was largely concerned with their 19-year-old pitching phenom Milt Fritz who was taking the league by storm.

Whenever Rufus got together with Rollie, the talk invariably turned to finance. As Rollie had graduated with a degree in Accounting and had also proven himself a capable administrator as the co-owner of both a pro football team (in Detroit) and a pro basketball team (in Brooklyn), Rufus looked to his second son for advice on what to do with his money. Cautious by nature and born in an era where trust in banks was not firmly rooted in the American psyche, Rufus had always been reluctant to, as Rollie put it, "play the market" - by which he meant the stock market.

"I may start selling some of my stock," Rollie admitted. Rufus was surprised and said as much. Rollie sighed and continued, "The basketball team is bleeding money. Prescott's unhappy and he's not the kind of guy who hides his feelings." Daniel Prescott, who had been successfully navigating Prohibition by retooling his brewing company into a bottling and root beer business, was the majority owner of the Brooklyn "Root Beer Barrels" basketball club. Rollie owned 35% of the team.

"In fact, the whole league is losing money," Rollie said, shaking his head. "I've been after Jack," meaning league president Jack Kristich, "to tighten up the rules so we can get away from playing in cages and accentuate the skill of the players rather than the rough-housing."

Rufus nodded in response. His son continued, "As for the market.... too many people buying on margin. It can't sustain this level with so much speculation going on. I'd expect a correction at some point."

"What's buying on margin mean?" Rufus asked.

Rollie explained that people - generally ordinary citizens - had been getting into the stock market more and more as the boom continued unabataed. This led to people buying shares with money they didn't have, hoping the price would rise and they could sell for a profit.

"And banks let people do this?" Rufus asked.

"Well, shoot, Pop, the banks are doing it themselves," Rollie said, shaking his head. "If the market ever drops, a lot of people are going to lose their shirts," he finished.

Rufus decided to change the subject. "How's Francie doing?"

"She's trying to be upbeat, but the doctors told her this is risky," Rollie said. He and his wife were hoping to give their daughter Marty a little brother or sister, but there were problems and the doctors had warned Francie that she could be jeopardizing her own health were she to get pregnant again. Nevertheless, she was pregnant and the baby was due in January.

"We'll be praying for her," Rufus said, patting his son's hand. Rollie nodded his thanks.

Then it was Rollie's turn to change the subject. "So... Pop, tell me about this deal you have with Harry."

Rufus had a rueful look on his face. "I should have known better," he said. "I told Harry I'd give him a dime for every hit he got this season. And a nickel for every walk."

Harry spoke up, "And he said he'd charge me a quarter for every strikeout."

"OK, so Pop was encouraging you to make good contact," Rollie pointed out. Tom nodded and said, "Yeah, Pop thinks being around Bobby so much might have made Harry try to be a power hitter as well. And his swing isn't suited for it."

Harry had a sheepish look on his face. "I will admit that it is sorely tempting to try to hit the ball a country mile."

Rufus steered the conversation back on topic. "So anyway, this bugger struck out one time this season. One.... time...."

Rollie started laughing. "And how many hits did he get?"

Tom, also laughing, said, "He had 52 hits and 24 walks."

Rollie, showing his ability with numbers, quickly worked it out in his head and said, "So you ended up owing $6.15, Pop."

Rufus was shaking his head, but he had a small grin on his face as he said, "I'll just have to mark it down as an investment in Harry's future."

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The group settled in for the game. Rufus and Tom watched Milt Fritz intently. Rufus hadn't scouted Fritz, who had been considered a somewhat marginal prospect (he had in fact been drafted in the 12th round). Possum Daniels had scouted him and in his report noted that he loved the kid's attitude. Tom noted that he looked like a battler while Rufus picked apart his mechanics and admired how consistently smooth it was. "The Chiefs might have something here," he concluded.

Harry meanwhile, watched Detroit outfielder Al Wheeler with envy. Wheeler was just 21 years old, but unlike Fritz, he had not escaped notice and had been the first overall pick of the 1926 draft. Rufus pointed out that he had taken a look at Wheeler and knew he'd be a good one. "Probably the best power-hitting prospect I've seen aside from Max Morris."

"That's because no one is like Morris," Tom pointed out.

"True," Rufus admitted. "But Wheeler has Triple Crown potential and everyone is finally getting a look at it."

Detroit managed to win the game, 4-3, one of only eight losses Fritz would suffer that season. Wheeler had a couple of hits, as he began to heat up. He would hit for the cycle on August 1st while his team would capture the Federal pennant (by two games over the Chiefs) and then beat the Philadelphia Sailors in seven in a thrilling World Championship Series.


.

[legendsport]

Brooklyn, NY: September 12, 1929:

"Gene, with all due respect, I think you're in over your head."

Eugene Weston, the 32-year-old owner of the Brooklyn Kings, narrowed his eyes as he gazed across the table.

Rollie Barrell, who'd known him since they were both teenagers, didn't flinch in the face of his long-time friend's glare. "You know I'm your friend, Gene."

Weston sighed heavily and seemed to visibly deflate as he sat back in his chair. Rollie and Weston were enjoying an early lunch at a restaurant owned, ironically, by Daniel Prescott's brother.

"I never really wanted to own the Kings, you know," Weston told Rollie, who did, in point of fact, know exactly that. Malcolm Presley, Gene's grandfather, had left him the team in his will. Presley, one of baseball's finest gentlemen and one of the game's true elder statesmen, had passed away at 88 back in May. Weston, the son of Presley's daughter Bertha Presley Weston, took over reluctantly. Rollie knew that Gene liked to pretend he was Jay Gatsby, the tragic hero of F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel of a few years past. Like Gatsby, Weston had lots of money and was a veteran of the World War. Owning a baseball club was - theoretically - interesting. Owning and running the Kings County Bank, on which the family fortune rested, was much too much like work to suit Eugene Weston.

"Regardless, you do own the Kings... and the bank too. Your job now is to protect what your grandfather built over the past thirty-plus years," Rollie pointed out.

"I could sell the team. Dan Prescott's been after me about just that ever since Granddad died."

Rollie nodded. Daniel Prescott was his partner in the Brooklyn Barrels basketball club and had often spoken of his desire to get into the "highly exclusive club" of FABL owners. "I think Dan sees the Kings as another jewel in his crown," Rollie told his friend.

"I know," Gene said. He sighed and added, "and my mother would kill me if I sold the team. The Kings were precious to her daddy... so the team is precious to her too. Even though she knows less than I do about baseball."

"The GM runs the team. Just stay out of his way and it'll work out," Rollie pointed out. "You need to be more concerned about the bank. The market has been really volatile lately and I don't like the way things are trending."

Weston waved a hand dismissively. "The market is fine. The bank is heavily leveraged. If I pull out now, what kind of confidence would that show our investors and depositors?" He shook his head. "No... I need to keep a steady hand on the wheel. This is just a rough patch, it'll sort itself out." He took a drink of his club soda (Rollie suspected there was more than just club soda in that glass). Then Weston added, "You'll see. It'll be fine."

Rollie shook his head. "Are you trying to convince me? Or yourself?"

"Don't be an old woman, Rollie. I swear you're worse than my mother."

Rollie pointed a finger at his friend. "You realize that there's so much trading going on that the ticker can't keep up, right? If things go south in a hurry, no one will be able to get out in time and that would lead to a dangerous downward spiral."

"I have faith in our system," Weston stubbornly replied.

"Well, I don't. I'm slowly selling out and I suggest you do the same."

Weston started to reply, but Rollie held up his hand. "Not all of it... Just a bit. All this buying on margin? It's gambling and if you lose it, you'll lose everything."

Weston grimaced. "You really are worse than my mother," he said again.

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Hollywood, CA: September 12, 1929:

"Stop acting like a child!"

Joe Barrell ignored his wife, his focus was completely on showing up his challenger. This... kid... had the nerve to suggest he was stronger than Joe? Well, Joe was determined to show him what's what on that score.

Dorothy had her hands on her hips, scowling at her husband, whose right hand was locked with that of an up-and-coming young actor named Wilbur Denison (the studio would need to do something with that name, Dorothy reflected automatically). Both men's faces were red with strain as they arm wrestled to see who was the stronger man.

Joe's arm pushed his opponent's down... just a small amount, but Joe knew every inch increased his leverage.

"Joe, you're 35 years old, you have nothing to prove!" Dorothy gave it another - equally ineffective - shot.

Joe puffed out his lower lip and blew his hair out of his eyes. He was wearing it longer than he ever had before - a necessity for his upcoming role in Tarzan's next adventure. Dorothy, on the other hand, would skip this one. She was pregnant. The writers had grumbled a bit, but had come up with a story that involved Jane making an early cameo - close-up only - before Tarzan headed off to chase down some poachers. The 23-year-old across the table from Joe was playing one of the poachers.

"Well, I hope out daughter has more sense than her father," Dorothy grumbled and spun on her heel. Joe frowned... "what if it's a boy?" he wanted to shout.

"Give it up, old man," Wilbur Denison said.

Joe's scowl deepened. Then he released a bit of pressure... just a tiny bit and as he saw Wilbur's eyes widen momentarily, Joe threw all his strength into a mighty push... and slammed Denison's arm down onto the table.

"Score one for the old man!" Joe shouted in triumph.

The phone was ringing. Joe looked around their small bungalow... Dorothy was nowhere to be seen.

"Dot! Get the phone!" he yelled. He shook hands with Denison, being good natured although he was still stewing at the kid's insolence. For his part, Denison looked suitably chagrined. Either the kid was actually a great actor, or Joe had indeed proven his point.

The phone continued to ring. Joe wanted to spit. Instead he told Denison, "Be right back. I don't know where Dot has got off to..."

He snatched the handset from the cradle with a barked, "Hello?"

"Uh, hello Joe, this is Mort," he heard tinnily.

"Who?"

"Mort... Goldstein? Your accountant?"

Joe rubbed his left hand over his face. "Right... sorry, Mort. What can I do for you?"

There was a pause. Joe had a sense that Mort had some bad news.

When the silence continued, Joe lost his patience, and said, "Come on, Mort, spill it."

"Uh... the bank called. They denied your request."

This took Joe by surprise. "What? Why?"

"They said you've got too much out on margin already. Something about the market being volatile lately."

Joe's face screwed up in a grimace. "And... that's what I pay you for, right? To advise me on stuff like this?"

"Uh... yes, that's true. I apologize Joe, I thought the bank would okay the credit for this one. They've been incredibly willing up to this point."

"So, what's your take? Should we sell some of our stock?"

Mort paused again, but just as Joe was about to bark at him, he finally replied. "I don't think we can. Most of what you have is on margin and the price hasn't risen enough to cover us if we sell. We need to ride this out and hope for the best."

"Hope for the best? And what happens if it doesn't get better?" Joe growled.

"Well... it always has in the past," Mort answered. "No reason to think this won't blow over too."

Joe huffed out his breath in frustration.

"Look at the bright side, Joe," Mort said. Joe muttered a "what" in response and Mort finished, "Since they denied you credit, you can't get in any deeper."

Joe was glad that Mort wasn't in the room. He might have strangled him.

.

[legendsport]

New York, NY: October 29, 1929:

Jack Barrell emerged from the cigar store and stepped back into the bustle of Times Square. A man shot past, nearly running into Jack; the man's hat was askew and a moment later fell off entirely where it was immediately crushed under the shoe of another man rushing in the same direction.

Jack, in town because he had found out that - once again - he had been traded (this time from Quebec to the New York Eagles), wondered what it was with New Yorkers. Always in a hurry, but this seemed more extreme than was typical. He turned his head to follow the men who joined a throng surrounding a newsboy.

The newsboy had perched himself on a lamppost, his bag of newspapers hanging off the arm that hugged the post, his other held aloft. His mouth was moving and Jack could hear his strident voice, but the words themselves were lost in the cacophonous noise of thousands of people and a mass of snarled traffic crossing the busy junction of Broadway and Seventh Avenue.

The offices of the New York Eagles, where Jack was scheduled to meet with coach and part-owner Bill Yeadon, were on Sixth Avenue and 45th Street. He had decided to stop in the cigar shop, thinking to give his new boss a gift. He had been surprised at the mayhem that greeted him when he exited the shop.

Using his size and strength much like he did when fighting through the line on the football field, Jack shouldered his way closer to the newsboy. As he approached he began to catch snatches of the kid's shouted cries... "Stock Market" and "Crash" among them.

Deciding that fighting through the crowd in what would likely be a vain attempt to secure a copy of the morning paper, Jack changed course and started heading across the square, looking to escape to Sixth Avenue, where he hoped things would be at least a little calmer.

Feeling like a fish swimming upstream as he fought the crowds heading into Times Square, Jack eventually made it to the offices of the New York Eagles Hockey Club. The secretary, a plump and matronly woman with grey hair, greeted him with a tired smile and escorted him into Yeadon's office.

The tall, spare man rose from his chair, a warm smile creasing a face that bore more than one scar from his own days as a hard-nosed defenseman.

"Jack! It is good to see you again," he said as he thrust out his right hand.

The two men exchanged a nearly bone-crushing handshake. Though they had crossed paths many times in the years since Yeadon had unsuccessfully tried to woo Jack away from Jack Connolly's Toronto Dukes, this was the first time they'd met in a one-on-one setting.

"You had a good trip?" Yeadon asked.

Jack reflected on that for a moment before answering. He'd played a football game Sunday in Buffalo and caught the Monday morning train for New York. He'd arrived at Grand Central the previous evening. All told, it was a tolerable trip for a man who spent a lot of time on trains. "It was uneventful," he replied, then grinned and added, "And I've learned how valuable that is when you're traveling."

"Indeed," Yeadon agreed. He too spent a lot of time on trains.

Then Yeadon, showing a good memory, reflected on Jack's "formidable" grandmother, who'd sided with him when he and the Transcontinental Hockey Association had tried to get Jack to go west to play hockey back in the early days of the sport (and Jack's career). It had been a decade since Vera had passed away, but Jack felt a pang of grief and as he thanked Yeadon for this words. He had a small, sad smile on his face as he nodded his agreement that Vera Reid had been a "tough woman" in every sense of the word.

"Well... I guess it's been far longer than I'd hoped, but I've finally got you for my team," Yeadon said.

"Yes and I look forward to the opportunity," Jack replied. Then his face grew serious and he continued, "Though I have to admit to feeling like a bit of a vagabond lately. I've gone from Toronto to Chicago to Quebec and now here, in just a few years."

Yeadon bobbed his head and said, "You can look at that one of two ways: either you're a problem that teams are seeking to rid themselves of, or that you're a valuable commodity that teams are trying to add."

Jack grimaced as he replied, "Or maybe it's a bit of both."

Yeadon laughed. "Possibly," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "But," he continued, "rest assured, I do not take on other team's problems as some sort of public service. You're here because I think you can help us win: plain and simple."

Jack thanked him again. Then the two men settled into a routine that Jack had become quite accustomed to: the negotiation of a contract. Jack had enjoyed a good year for Quebec and his track record on the ice was a good one. Yeadon, to his credit, acknowledged this and both men negotiated in good faith. At the end of the talk, Jack felt he had gotten a fair shake and Yeadon looked pleased so Jack reflected that it was likely a win for both of them.

"I'm guessing you haven't failed to notice all the problems the stock market is having," Yeadon said as they both lit cigars. Business was done; they were now just talking.

"I came through Times Square... that's where these came from," he nodded at the box of cigars on Yeadon's desk. "It was pandemonium around the newsboys."

Yeadon puffed with a thoughtful look on his face. Then he leaned forward and said, "I've heard that your old boss Bert Thomas has got himself in a bit of pickle."

Jack's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Really? How so?" he asked, the eagerness in his voice all too evident.

Yeadon chuckled. "He put a lot of his money in the stock market. Figured he could buy on margin like all these other greedy sons of..." Yeadon stopped and shook his head, "Well... you know."

Jack nodded and Yeadon continued, "The market took a big tumble Thursday and again yesterday. People like Bert are losing fortunes." He paused and tapped ash into the tray on his desk. "And I mean that literally: fortunes."

He mentioned that his brother George - who was the League President - had phoned and told him just that morning that he thought Thomas would have to sell both his baseball and hockey clubs. Jack almost - but not quite - felt sorry for the guy.

"What about you?" Jack asked.

"Me? My father ran a successful lumber business for years. He believed in cash on the barrel head and in not trusting a banker. I reckon I'm the same way." He looked proud as he finished, "Most of my money is in that same lumber business and what isn't, is here in the Eagles' offices. I'm not going to gamble with my family's hard-earned profits, and my children's futures."

"Sounds smart. My father is the same way. My brothers..." he paused and shook his head. "My brother Joe has a lot of money in the market. So did Rollie, but I believe he began pulling it out this summer. He's sharp and could read the tea leaves. Personally, I don't have a lot, and what I do have, I don't put in get-rich-quick schemes."

"Sounds like you're smart, too, Jack. Don't undervalue the virtues of caution."

Jack nodded in agreement. He figured Rollie would be fine, but he worried about Joe. As for himself, his main concern was keeping Marie and his daughters safe and happy.

.

[legendsport]

Egypt, GA: December 25, 1929:

The Barrells had gathered, as they did every year, for a family Christmas. And as had been the case increasingly often in recent years, not every one of Rufus and Alice's ten children was on hand.

Joe had phoned his father and explained that he and his wife would remain in Hollywood for the holidays. He had claimed that this was because Dorothy was having a difficult pregnancy and was not up to a lengthy train ride. And she had openly scoffed at Joe's suggestion of flying on one of America's fledgling "airlines" calling them "deathtraps" and noting that it would take several flights to get all the way from Los Angeles to Atlanta, with each being an opportunity for disaster to strike. "She's quite irrational on that score," Joe had told Rufus.

Rollie and Francie were likewise absent. With their child due in less than a month, Francie was confined to bed. Unlike Alice's open skepticism over Dorothy's "condition" she and Rufus had both been present for a house call in Rollie's Brooklyn brownstone where the doctor told Francie flat out that she should stay in bed as much as possible.

Making it three-for-three, Jack was in New York preparing for his first season with the Eagles. Marie and their daughters were in the couple's Chicago home. Jack had intimated to Rufus that the separation was "difficult" and he wasn't sure how much longer he'd continue to play as he missed his "three girls" more and more with each successive hockey season since being traded from the Chicago Packers two years before.

Danny and his wife, the former Gladys Summers, were on hand. Like her sisters-in-law Dorothy and Francie, Gladys was pregnant. For them it would be their first child and the baby wasn't due until April. "By then I'll be sitting on a bench somewhere," Danny groused. He was unhappy with the Kings' steadfast refusal to give him "a real shot" at making the big league club and his playing time in the '29 season consisted of just 25 games over the A, AA and AAA levels, hitting .256 over 78 total at-bats. He was underwhelmed... and so were the brass in Brooklyn. Worse still, he was openly considering quitting.

Still... Rufus encouraged his son to stick it out. "The fact that you're a professional athlete at all considering that injury is a miracle. And don't spit on miracles. You're young and there's time for you to make it to FABL." And Powell Slocum, who had recently accepted a job managing the Pittsburgh Miners after two years managing Sacramento in the Great Western League, had promised to work with Dan over the winter and he and Gladys would head over to Birmingham to see Powell, Claudia and James.

Danny, sitting with his parents and his wife, wondered openly whether Powell and Claudia would have a child of their own. "She's only thirty, so I would think she'd be capable," he noted. Gladys snorted; Alice gave her son a level look and said, "There's more to it than just being able. Plus it takes two to tango, as they say." Danny wisely decided not to pursue the matter further (it was none of his business anyway).

Fred and his new wife Tillie were also there. Fred was now a big leaguer, having finished his just-over-half-a-season with the Chicago Cougars with a modest .247 average. He did drive in 48 runs over 79 games, so as he pointedly remarked to a skeptical Danny, "My goal for next season is to get a hundred RBIs."

"You won't," Danny said, the left side of his mouth curled up in a half-smile.

"Wanna bet?" Fred retorted.

Danny saw his mother glaring at him and Gladys was giving him a look as well. So he hesitated a bit and then said, "Naw... but tell you what. Whoever gets more RBIs next season has to take the other out to a steak dinner."

"Deal!" Fred said.

Danny put up a hand. "And it doesn't matter what level either, because who knows if the Kings will bring me up. So if I end up in AA or something and drive in more than you.... it still counts."

Fred frowned for a moment, then stuck out his hand and the brothers shook on it.

Gladys shook her head. "You're a fool, Dan Barrell," she told him and then kissed him on the cheek. "But I love you anyway."

The man of the hour, thanks to his being drafted first overall by the Chicago Cougars, was Tommy. He had finished a stellar collegiate career at Georgia Baptist in the spring. Now he and Fred would be team mates once again, just as they had been in college. "I doubt you'll make the club," Fred told his brother. Tommy, for his part, just shook his head. Fred sure seemed full of himself these days, he reckoned. Getting to the FABL had gone to his head apparently. Still... he admitted it was unlikely he'd go right from campus to the big time. Sure, Doug Lightbody had done it, but that guy was a straight-up killer at the plate.

Bobby, already a pro thanks to having skipped college after being drafted third overall in the prior draft, was home from a season that had been a rousing success any way you sliced it. He'd started in Class C, hit .436 with nine homers there in just 33 games. Then he tore up Class B to the tune of .391 with 15 homers and 54 RBIs in 59 games. That had earned him some time at Class A. He hit .376 there, with six homers and 34 RBIs in 48 games. All told, he hit .396 over the three levels with 30 homers and 126 RBIs in 142 games and 565 at-bats. All this made Rufus extremely proud, and he didn't bother to hide it. "You'll be in Philadelphia in no time, Bob," he told his son. Bobby shrugged and told his father that he'd been told he'd likely spend the 1930 season with Double A New Orleans.

Then there were the two kids that were still at home with their parents. Harry, whose sophomore season of high school baseball in Atlanta had been a good one (.323 average and stellar defense) and Betsy. The only downer for Harry was the deteriorating condition of his grandfather. Joe Reid was not doing well. Cooter Daniels had taken to stopping by often, helping to ease the burden on Harry who loved his granddad dearly, but was sometimes out of his depth dealing with an increasingly frail - and bitter about it - old man.

Betsy was a prodigy in her right. She was considered a top-notch tennis player and, despite being just 15 years old, routinely beat opponents who were sometimes a decade older than her. Rufus, aware that she had grown up in the shadow of her brothers and sometimes felt left out due to being the only girl, made sure she knew he was just as proud of her accomplishments as he was of those of her brothers.

"Y'all know what you have here, don'tcha?" Possum asked Rufus and Alice at Christmas dinner. Rufus and Alice had looked at each other then back at Possum. He let the question hang out there for a moment before blurting out, "Y'all have a gen-u-ine sports dynasty in the making, son!"

Author's note: I decided to use the 'Christmas' post to recap the goings-on amongst the various Barrells. Now that the boys are reaching the ages at which they are playing pro baseball, this could become a regular way of just recapping their various seasons as we move forward. As always - thanks for reading!

[legendsport]

Brooklyn, NY: January 3, 1930:

"Keep your voice down!" Rollie whisper-shouted.

Jack Barrell scowled at his brother but when he spoke next, it was also in a whisper: "What do you mean, wiped out?"

Rollie let out a huffing breath and the severe strain on his face nearly broke Jack's heart.

"I mean just that... I am essentially wiped out."

"And Francie doesn't know?"

Rollie shook his head and buried his face in his hands. Jack put a hand on his brother's shoulder.

It took a few moments for Rollie to gather himself. Then he said, again in a whisper, "How can I tell her? The baby is due soon and the doctor's told us again and again that stress could put both Francie and the baby in danger."

Rollie lowered his hands and there were tears in his eyes as he looked at Jack. "After losing everything... I can't lose Francie too, Jack."

"You're not going to lose Francie," Jack whispered back fiercely. "She's way too stubborn to go anywhere," he continued, and forced a grin onto his face.

Rollie's laugh was grim but he smiled when he said, "When you're right, you're right."

Jack sat down across from his brother, who slumped in his chair at the kitchen table. It was late, nearly ten o'clock and thankfully Marty was asleep... as was, presumably Francie who was on bed rest until the baby's arrival. That was expected to be at least another week.

Jack watched his brother sob silently for a moment then said, "This is when you really wish there was no Prohibition. This is a situation that definitely calls for a stiff drink."

Rollie muttered something unintelligible. Jack briefly considered and then discarded, the idea of asking him to repeat himself. Rollie stood up suddenly and, standing in front of the ice box, reached up and pulled open a cabinet. "Get some glasses," he muttered as he pulled out a brown bottle.

"For medicinal purposes," he said softly.

Jack raised his eyebrows but hustled over near the sink and retrieved a pair of glasses, setting them on the table as Rollie returned to his seat. Jack watched as Rollie uncorked the bottle and shakily poured a couple of fingers of... Jack wasn't quite sure what it was... into the glass.

The brothers silently clinked their glasses together and both downed their drinks in a single gulp.

Jack grimaced. Whiskey, he thought as he felt the burn. And not rot gut either.

"Where'd you get this?" he croaked as Rollie poured another measure into both glasses.

Rollie smirked. "Believe it or not, I got this from Dan Prescott."

Jack's eyebrows rose. "Prescott? Really?"

Rollie clinked his glass against Jack's and downed his drink. "Yep," he replied after wiping the back of his hand across his lips. "He gave it to me when we partnered up on the basketball team," he explained.

Jack's eyes brightened. "The teams... you're not wiped out, Rollie... you still have the teams!" Jack whispreed fiercely and slapped the table with an open palm - doing so lightly to keep the noise down.

Rollie shook his head. "That's true, but I'm going to have to sell out on one of them." He paused and shakily poured another drink before finishing, "Maybe both."

Jack shook his head and asked, "So what happened?"

Rollie's mirthless laugh returned before he replied, "Gene Weston's bank failed on New Year's Eve. He had all my money." He gulped a third drink and added, "Wiped out. The idiot had used his depositor's money buying stocks on margin."

Jack groaned and said, "A lot of that going around."

Rollie nodded and gave another cold laugh before saying, "They say misery loves company." He shook his head and added, "Me? Knowing that a lot of other people are in the same boat? Doesn't make me feel any better."

Jack took a deep breath and then said, "Speaking of misery loving company..." He placed a hand on Rollie's before continuing, "Joe's wiped out too. He's selling his share of the Wildcats. And I heard Billy Whitney is going to shutter the film studio."

Rollie raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Sometimes it seems like the whole world is just falling apart, you know?"

Jack grabbed his brother by the shoulder and squeezed. Tears of pain appeared in Rollie's eyes and he locked gazes with Jack.

"Don't forget, you have a wife and daughter who love you, Roland. This is not the end of the world."

Rollie bowed his head and was silent for a long time. When he raised his head some of the old fire was back in his eyes. "You're right, Jack," he said.

Jack was glad to see Rollie come out of his funk, at least enough to talk things over. Weston was done, the bank gone and with it the fortune that Malcolm and Reginald Presley had built over fifty years. Sad as it was, it was also common in the aftermath of October's market crash. Weston had been forced to sell the baseball team too. Rollie's partner Daniel Prescott had bought the Brooklyn Kings. Prescott was one of the few who seemed well positioned to ride out this... whatever it was (some were already calling it a depression). When Jack pushed, Rollie admitted he would probably sell out of the basketball team. The football team was the more profitable of the two operations. Plus, if anyone could shepherd that team through these tough times, it was Dan Prescott.

"I suppose that means you'll be moving back to Detroit, then," Jack said.

Rollie shrugged. "I suppose so." He grimaced and said, "Even if I sell out here in Brooklyn... I might need to take on investors in Detroit. The Maroons aren't cheap to run. And finding people with cash they can sink into a business? Not going to be easy."

Jack gave his brother's shoulder another squeeze. "Doesn't Pop always say that nothing worth having ever comes easy?"

Rollie poured them both another drink. Jack's head was already spinning, but he gamely downed his drink.

"Good ol' Pop. He's always been able to put a positive spin on things, hasn't he?"

Jack nodded and smiled. This time it was he who poured the next round. He raised his glass and said, "To Pop and the wisdom of age."

Rollie clinked his glass against his brother's and said, "To Pop."

[legendsport]

Toronto, ON: April 3, 1930:

Jack Barrell arrived, hat in hand (literally but also, possibly, figuratively) at the offices of the Toronto Dukes. He was five minutes early. This was a habit he had picked up long ago, inherited from his father, a man who had a perpetual loathing for being late and was therefore always early. Jack shared this habit with most of his brothers with only Joe and Tommy being of the opinion that the world could wait on them.

The offices looked the same (the Wolves and Dukes logos prominently displayed over the main entrance), but many things had changed in the four years since Jack had last set foot in them. The biggest change was at the top, and that was precisely the only reason Jack had agreed to this visit.

Albert "Bert" Thomas, the man who had ruled hockey (and baseball) in Toronto for the entirety of Jack's career, was gone. A victim, like so many others, of the economic disaster currently ravaging the world. Thomas had been forced to sell off most of his holdings and managed to hold onto only two of his hotels - his first, and favorite, in Toronto, plus his newest, built just three years ago in Ottawa. The purchasers varied, but both of his sport franchises went to the same man. And that was the man Jack was here to see.

The 1929-30 hockey season had finished just a month earlier with the Boston Bees winning the Challenge Cup in a three-game sweep of Ottawa. The season was one of change for the NAHC, with scoring up by a vast margin as rule changes had opened up the offensive game to a level not seen since before the war. All Jack took away from it was that the game had passed him by. His creaky knees would have been a legitimate excuse, but Jack made no excuses. His speed was gone and thus with the new, open style of play, he just couldn't keep up. He'd gutted his way through the entire 44-game season, knowing it could possibly be his last. His offensive output was not good: four goals and one assist. Fittingly, his playing time slowly evaporated and he was put on the ice more for his still fearsome checking ability than his once great and now gone offensive abilities.

The meeting he'd had with Bill Yeadon in March had gone so much differently than the one they'd had when Jack signed his contract. Yeadon released Jack, but had the good grace to do it in person and to offer his thanks for Jack's efforts while acknowledging that he simply didn't fit into the New York Eagles' plans going forward.

And then the telegram came from the Toronto Dukes.

Jack knew, of course, that Thomas had been forced to sell. The new owner, David J. Welcombe, was an unknown factor. His business was running a distillery. With the U.S. still under Prohibition, business in Canadian whiskey was very good. If a lot of it somehow ended going south over the border? Well, Welcombe just made the stuff, where it went when someone bought it from him was none of his business. At least that's what Jack had heard.

He entered the executive suite of the Dukes, feeling a surprising amount of trepidation. The first thing he noticed was that Welcombe had replaced the carpet. He'd also replaced the secretary. Gone was the old battle-axe that had served as Bert's gatekeeper. Also gone was Bobby - or Billy - Jack could never remember, a cold young man who had been Bert's personal assistant. Jack found that he didn't miss either of them. Welcombe's secretary was an attractive young woman who greeted Jack warmly and surprisingly even offered him a drink.

A few moments later, the secretary escorted Jack into the owner's office. The room had been redecorated in a more modern style. Bert's office felt like it had been lifted straight out of some Dickens story (Ebenezer Scrooge came to mind) while Welcombe had the curtains wide open, with Toronto's spring sunshine pouring in. The carpet was done in a fancy pattern that contained both the rich maroon of the Dukes and the bright blue of the Toronto Wolves.

"Jack! Welcome, have a seat," Welcombe said with a smile.

He raised an eyebrow and asked his secretary, "No drink for Mr. Barrell, Ruth?"

"He declined, sir," she replied and gave her boss a tight nod that was almost a bow as she backed out of the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

"You don't drink whiskey, Jack?" Welcombe asked. The eyebrow was still cocked.

Jack shrugged and said, "Sure, I drink whiskey. I just thought I might abstain until I heard what you wanted to talk about," he explained.

"Ah, good man," Welcombe said. He walked back behind his desk and took a seat himself.

"I know that you and Bert had a, um, shall we say, contentious relationship," Welcombe said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"True, we had our differences. Largely related to my playing baseball... and later football," Jack replied.

Welcombe took a sip of his drink and then sat back in his chair. "I don't share Bert's opinions on that... or on many things as a matter of fact," he said, his gaze on the tumbler in his hand.

"I don't believe in beating around the bush," Welcombe said. He rose again from his seat behind his desk and stepped to the window.

Jack watched, a somewhat bemused look on his face, thinking how different this man was from his predecessor.

Welcombe had his back turned to Jack, but asked, "What do you know about making whiskey?"

This took Jack by surprise and it was plain to hear in his one-word response, "Nothing."

"I won't necessarily bore you with the details, but I'm sure you've heard of the process, which is called distillation."

"Well, sure, I've heard of it. Might have even learned a little about it in school," Jack said and then added with a smile, "Not that I paid a lot of attention in school."

Welcombe's response was a light chuckle. Then he turned to look at Jack, his features hidden in shadow as he stood in front of the window; a silhouette wreathed in bright light.

"Basically, you take a liquid, boil it, and then cool the vapor so it turns back into a liquid. Alcohol boils at a lower temperature than water, so it becomes vapor first and it's that vapor we condense back to liquid. This separates out the undesired elements." He raised his glass, "I triple distill my whiskey which simply means I repeat the process three times. It's an Irish thing," he said and Jack might have caught a wink, but it was hard to know for sure.

"That's an oversimplification, of course. The process can be quite complex, really, and I've left out a lot of details," Welcombe continued. "I could go on for hours on the process, the mashing, the fermentation, ageing... every step is a carefully monitored and managed process, worked out over centuries, that delivers the finest whiskey a man could hope to find." He raised his glass, and the sunlight from the window gave the liquid it contained a rich, golden hue.

"Now you're making me want to take a drink," Jack said with a laugh.

Welcome chuckled too. He pointed to a cabinet in the corner. "Help yourself," he said.

Jack did and when he returned to his chair, glass in hand, Welcombe said, "The reason I brought up distillation is because I believe something similar happens with people, Jack."

Jack took a sip of his whiskey. It was, as far as his admittedly limited experience could tell, very good. "How so?" he asked with a slight croak in his voice.

"Experience is the distiller. A man, say... someone like yourself... his experiences change him, refine him... distill him into something different. If he handles this process well, it can be an improvement. If not, he can end up not 'making the cut' as we'd say in the whiskey business."

Jack was intrigued by this - Welcombe was completely different than any club owner he'd ever met. He took another sip, and listened as Welcombe continued speaking.

"In your case, you've been a baseball player, a hockey player and a football player. Disparate experiences all, with some commonality, but each offering its own distillation to your character." Welcombe paused, stood, and refilled his tumbler. He sipped before continuing, "I would say you've been triple-distilled Mr. Barrell. And I think you have come out of the ageing barrel - pardon the pun - a better man."

"Thank you, Mr. Welcombe. That's quite the compliment, and if I may say so, the most unique one I've received," Jack had a smile on his face and felt a bit flustered. He also had no earthly idea where this was going.

"I'd like to bring you back to Toronto, Jack," Welcombe said.

"Thank you again. But I am sure you know that last season... didn't turn out all that well," Jack said.

"Ah, too true, too true. I do know that." Welcombe paused and pointed at Jack, "I also know that it was just part of your own distillation, and that you're a finer man for it. Plus," he paused again and took another sip. "I am not asking you back as a player."

Jack, who had been looking out the window, snapped his gaze back to Welcombe who laughed.

"Let me clarify. I do want you to play for the Dukes next season. But... more importantly, I want you to coach them."

"Me? Coach?"

"Sure. You can play as long as you'd like, but at the end of the day, when you hang up the skates... I want you to stay on as coach." Welcombe grinned and added, "That's where I believe you belong, and I want to hire you before anyone else catches on."

Jack's head was spinning - and not simply from the whiskey. A coach? He'd never really considered it.

"Thank you again, sir. I'd be happy to give it a go," Jack said after a moment's contemplation. Marie might not like it, but the idea had a certain appeal to it and he knew he could manage her reservations.

"Oh, and if you'd like to try your hand at baseball again? Just say the word," Welcombe said.

"Baseball? No, those days are behind me. As, most likely, is football. Hockey has always been my first love. Perhaps it's time I gave it all I have," Jack said firmly.


.

[legendsport]

Mobile, AL: August 11, 1930:

"You need to take it easy sometimes," the trainer said.

Tom Barrell was laying on the table in the corner of the Mobile Commodores clubhouse. He reflected that calling the tiny room a 'clubhouse' instead of a locker room was probably somebody's idea of stressing to the players that they were getting close to FABL, and distract them from the fact that they were plying their trade in Double A and might not ever get any higher on the ladder.

Tom grunted as the trainer, a young man not much older than he himself was, pressed on his balky back. Tom had only been with the Commodores a few weeks. An impressive half-season at Single A Lincoln had spurred the Cougars to move him up a level. In both Lincoln and Mobile, he found himself following in his brother Fred's footsteps. Hopefully that continued to be the case as Freddy was on the big league roster and enjoying a very solid season.

"Is it true?" The trainer asked, snapping Tom out of his reverie.

He raised his head and turned it to face the trainer. "Is what true?" he asked.

The trainer lowered his voice and said, "I heard that they're going to stop letting you play first base on the days you're not pitching."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "Who told you that?" he barked, instantly regretting the outburst as he saw a few heads turn their way. The rest of the team were getting ready for their game with Birmingham. Tom himself hadn't yet heard if he'd be playing. He'd pitched the day before, despite his balky back, and gotten roughed up, but no one had said anything to him about ending his quest to be the next two-way star. That was something no one had done successfully in the decade-plus since Max Morris stopped taking a turn in the rotation and concentrated solely on hitting baseballs out of ballparks. Tom was a pretty good hitter himself - as a senior at Georgia Baptist he'd played a fair amount of first base on his non-pitching days and managed a .335 average and 11 home runs in 176 at-bats. Even Freddy hadn't hit quite that well at the same school. But the Cougars seemed to be more interested in keeping him healthy enough to pitch and keep him and his bat on the bench on his off days.

The trainer looked sheepish as he replied, "I kind of overheard Kitchens on the phone." Tom frowned. Henry Kitchens was the manager and if anyone would know if they were pulling the plug on the two-way experiment, it'd have been him.

"Who was he on the phone with? ... you know, since you just happened to overhear it," Tom asked.

"I don't know," the trainer replied, his face reddening. "But I think it was the GM."

Tom groaned again and this time it wasn't because the trainer had hit a tender spot on his back. He rolled over. "I think that'll do for today, Roger," he said. "Thanks for the rub," he added and clapped the trainer on the shoulder as he grabbed his undershirt and pulled it over his head.

Tom believed in grabbing the bull by the horns. He wasn't going to sit back and let somebody sitting hundreds of miles away in Chicago pull the plug on him without a fight. He headed straight for the manager's office.

He knocked on the door - it was open, but he felt it would be polite nonetheless.

Kitchens looked up and smirked. "You might want to close the barn door there, Tommy," he said.

Tom looked down and realized he hadn't done up his uniform pants. He blushed and took care of that and then asked, "You have a minute, Mr. Kitchens?"

Kitchens cocked an eyebrow. "Mr. Kitchens? I guess this must be serious," he said, the corner of his mouth turned up in a wry grin.

"I reckon so," Tom said and entered the office, pushing the door closed behind him.

"OK, let's have it," Kitchens said and sat back with his arms crossed over his ample midsection. Kitchens was a former journeyman catcher whose career was brief and uneventful. But he was a fair and honest man and treated his players well, so Tom had no issues with him.

Tom took a deep breath and got right to the point. "I heard some scuttlebutt that you're going to stop playing me at first."

Kitchens' eyes narrowed a bit, but he didn't say anything.

"Is it true?" Tom prompted.

Kitchens sighed and said, "I'd like to know where you heard that." He raised a hand as Tom opened his mouth to reply and continued, "Don't worry about that, it doesn't matter."

"So it is true," Tom said.

Kitchens shook his head. "No, it's not. At least, not yet."

"Huh?"

Kitchens chuckled. "What your anonymous spy failed to hear was that the actual topic was whether your injury was related to pitching, or hitting. As it happened while pitching, that was my answer. I then asked if the brass wanted me to stop playing you at first base... meaning until your back is healed up. That was the missing context."

Tom relaxed a bit and nodded his thanks.

Kitchens raised a hand. "Keep in mind that you're one of the top pitching prospects in baseball, Tom. I know you consider yourself a hitter too, and given you have a couple of brothers making a living as hitters, I can see where you'd get that impression. My suggestion is to not lose sight of the fact that the Cougars drafted you to anchor their rotation someday, not to hold down first base."

"I get that, I just want to play as much as possible, and I believe I can help the team."

Kitchens perched a pair of reading glasses on his nose and looked down at a sheet on his desk. "Well," he said, "your average is a bit shy of .300, but I'd agree that you can actually hit a little. So for now, I will continue to let you do so."

He took the glasses off and then pointedly asked, "How's your back?"

Tom, deciding to lie - just a little - said, "It's good. I'm ready to get back out there, skip."

Kitchens chuckled and said, "Ah, now it's 'skip' is it? Well, ok, then Tommy. I'll pencil you in at first today."

Tom thanked him to which the skipper responded, "Don't thank me, just get out there and keep doing what you've been doing."

Tom was a happy young man. Until the fifth inning when he stepped in for his third at-bat of the game. He roped a liner into the gap in left-center. Busting it out of the box, he felt a pop in his hamstring as he rounded first base. He limped safely into second but was promptly - and correctly - lifted for a pinch-hitter.

As Roger the trainer helped him limp back to the dugout, Tom hung his head. The news turned out to be a pulled hamstring and he'd miss the next six weeks - which was about all the season had left. Tom fervently hoped this wasn't the end of the line for his days at first base, but one look at his manager had him fearing the worst.

.

[legendsport]

Washington, DC: September 8, 1930:

"Good morning, Mary," Rufus Barrell said to his secretary as he passed her desk on his way into the office marked "President" in gold leaf. He would still occasionally feel like he should pinch himself as he entered that office, still seeing himself as little more than a failed pitcher despite a slew of people telling him he was many things, none of them a failure of any kind.

"Good morning, Rufus," she replied. Rufus had insisted she stop calling him Mr. Barrell when he hired her. It had only taken about three years for him to break her will on that score.

"What's on the agenda for today?" he stopped and asked, smiling at her with his hand resting on the doorknob. This had become something of a ritual between them on the occasions when he was actually in the office.

Mary looked down at her desk, an affectation since Rufus knew all too well that she had his schedule memorized. "You have a 10 o'clock with James Reed."

Rufus frowned and she quickly added, "Jimmy Reed? The ex-head scout for the Cougars. I believe he's looking for a job...."

Rufus lightly slapped his forehead and chuckled, "Ah... right. Thanks, Mary!"

"Mr. Potentas also would like to speak with you. He suggested lunch...."

Rufus nodded and said, "Sure, that sounds fine. He can choose the restaurant."

Mary jotted a note and then added, "No other appointments. Your wife called yesterday, so you might want to give her a call."

Rufus had just returned from a West Coast trip and hadn't spoken with Alice since he left San Francisco three days earlier. He thanked Mary again and entered his office.

He walked the short distance to his desk and plopped down into his chair. He ran his gaze across the slew of pictures on his desk. Having a very large family meant, to Rufus, that there would have to be quite a few photographs arrayed beyond his blotter. Alice took the centermost position of course. He smiled and then grabbed the telephone.

After the operator made the long-distance connection, he heard his wife's voice and his smile grew even larger. "Hello, my dear," he said.

"Rufus! It's about time you called," she replied, not bothering to hide her aggravation.

"Sorry, I only got back into town last night and it was too late to call when I got back to the townhouse," he said meekly.

"We need to finish our conversation from the other day," she said, her tone brooking no argument.

Rufus sighed. "Yes, I suppose we do."

"Have you thought about what I said?"

"Yes. And I don't think Joe will take it well."

"We need to step in and get him straightened out, Rufus."

"He's not a child anymore Alice. And he's as stubborn as a mule," Rufus said.

"Well, we're still his parents and if he's going to be a pigheaded idiot, it's our responsibility to fix things."

"He'll see it as butting in."

"Too bad! Someone needs to, you know."

Rufus sighed again. This was going nowhere. On the one hand, she was right, but so was he. Rufus had been shocked at the state his oldest son had been in when he arrived for a visit. For one thing, Joe had been drunk as a skunk. Apparently Prohibition worked as well in Los Angeles as it did in Chicago. For another, his wife had stormed out of the bungalow as Rufus stepped out of the taxi, holding their infant son to her chest, with tears running down her face.

"Get back here!" Joe shouted from the doorway. He swayed a bit as he stood there in his undershirt and boxers, with a red stain on his chest (Rufus later found out it was pasta sauce, not blood as he originally feared).

Rufus had stopped Dorothy, largely to see if she was okay. She thanked him, and stepped into the cab, telling Rufus she was going to her mother's until Joe "cooled down and sobered up." Rufus handed the cabbie a five dollar bill and the taxi sped off.

He had done his best with his son, who was in a rage and too liquored up to explain why. Rufus poured coffee into Joe and finally got the story from him: Billy Whitney had closed the studio, leaving both Joe and Dorothy on the outs. Dorothy had a shot at getting some roles from one of the other studios, but Joe's acting skills weren't well-regarded and it was unlikely anyone would give him anything other than bit roles as a villain. "I was %#*@ing Tarzan, Pop!" he snarled.

Rufus was only in LA for a day before he was scheduled to head up to San Francisco, so he'd had to work fast. Letting Alice know what had happened, while the right thing to do hadn't really helped matters. Alice, naturally, wanted to immediately take charge and "set Joe straight" while Rufus was of the opinion that doing so would just make Joe dig in his heels. Ultimately, Rufus had worked things his way, with some sympathy and gentle cajoling. Unfortunately he had boarded his train for San Francisco unsure if he had helped matters any. Dorothy had not returned, Joe was morose and Rufus hadn't gotten a good look at his new grandson, whom they had named Charles after Dorothy's father.

"He was a ten pounder, Pop," Joe had told Rufus with a gleam in his eye. "He's going to be a bruiser, just like his old man," he continued and then angrily wiped a tear from his eye. "I've lost one family and I d**n well won't be losing another one," he told his father as Rufus had been about to get into his cab bound for Union Station.

Rufus hoped he was right.

"We can't just hope things will work out, Rufus," Alice said, snapping Rufus out of his reverie.

"Again... he's a grown man, dear. He'll work it out... or not. All we can do is offer advice."

Alice snorted and said, "We'll see about that. I've half a mind to go out there and club him over the head with my frying pan."

"I doubt that would help," Rufus said.

The conversation turned to Rollie and his family. Rufus had been to Detroit in June and seen his other new grandchild. It had been a difficult birth and Francie had been told in no uncertain terms that this should be her last pregnancy. The baby, a girl, was sickly, but by June had recovered nicely. Her name was Alice. Needless to say, her namesake was over the moon and had told Rollie that he had better show up at Christmas that year, "or else."

"Well, as I no longer own a basketball club, that shouldn't be a problem," Rollie had told his mother.

The entire league was struggling and Rollie admitted that it might not survive. "The last owners meeting I attended there was some discussion of suspending the league," he told his father, adding, "But I think the undercurrent was that if the league were suspended it was better than even odds that it would be permanent."

"Oh... and Harry was suspended from school yesterday," Alice told her husband.

"What! Why?"

"A prank that turned out badly. Something about a hamster and a young lady in his biology class."

Rufus shook his head. Harry was a born comedian but sometimes he took things too far.

"There was also some suggestion of not allowing him to play baseball next season if this continues," Alice added.

Rufus scoffed, "Not going to happen. He's the best player on the team. The kid hit .371 last season and is a flawless fielder."

"Well, maybe some people care more about education than baseball, Rufus," Alice retorted.

"Hmpf."

"Scoff if you'd like, but this is serious."

"I'll talk to him when I get home," Rufus promised.

That was essentially the end of the conversation, and just in time as Rufus found it was time for his appointment with Jimmy Reed.

Reed entered the office, shook hands with Rufus and as soon as both men were seated, Rufus got right to the point.

"So... Jimmy. The Cougars let you go after six seasons. Why?"

Reed, looking discomfited by this abrupt dive into an unhappy topic, replied, "Well, we finished seventh twice and then last twice... over the last four seasons, so it was housecleaning time. At least that's what they told me."

Rufus nodded. "That fits with what I've heard," he said and leaned back in his chair. "So give me your top five draft prospects," he added.

Reed didn't miss a beat. "Well... if we're talking about just this upcoming draft, I'd say the top five would be Rip Curry, Jack Flint, Jim Mason, Jim Beard and... um... Jake Smith."

Rufus raised an eyebrow. "Jake Smith?"

Reed's face grew serious. "Yes. He's a pitcher. College guy, St. Patrick's. Not really on anyone's short list, I know, but I've seen the kid pitch and there's just something about him. If I were still employed, I'd be pushing my club to snatch him. As it is, he could last a while because his numbers aren't eye-popping."

Rufus opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out a thick binder. He began flipping through the pages. He ran his finger down a list and said, "Ah, here he is. Jake Smith. Left-handed pitcher, St. Patrick's University."

Rufus looked up at Reed who was leaning forward.

"We had Possum Daniels look at him back in April... Possum is usually spot-on with pitchers."

"Right, he's a former catcher," Reed said, nodding.

"Yep," Rufus said, reading the report. "Possum noted that he throws three pitches, and all of them well, has good, consistent mechanics... and... interesting..." Rufus said, trailing off.

"What did he say?" Reed prompted.

Rufus finished reading. "Possum said the kid is likely be a late pick, but should be taken in the first few rounds. It looks like you two agree on Mr. Smith."

Reed smiled.

Rufus closed the binder and put it back in his desk, then closed the drawer and asked, "You mentioned just this draft when I asked for your top five... who are your top five amateurs overall?"

Reed's smile grew even wider as he ticked off four names: Jake DeYoung, Bill May, George Cleaves and Freddie Jones. He paused and Rufus asked, "And the fifth?"

"Oh that's easy because he's the best of a very good bunch. I'd even put him ahead of Freddie Jones and I think that young man is going to be a legend."

"So who is the young man that's better than a potential legend?"

"Why Harry Barrell, of course."

Rufus laughed and said, "You're hired! But not just because you picked my son as the best of the amateur bunch."

Reed laughed too and said, "I know, it's really because I agreed with Possum on Jake Smith."

.

[legendsport]

Washington, DC: October 9, 1930:

The townhouse was quiet. Thomas Potentas had gone to Poland to visit family and wouldn't be back until the following month. The days when the Barrell boys and Claudia had called the place home were long gone. Rufus was rattling around alone in the townhouse, covering the furniture with sheets as he prepared to head back to Georgia.

The knock when it came, nearly scared him witless. He bit down a panicked scream and shook his head ruefully. "You're too easily spooked, Rufus," he whispered aloud. Then he trudged into the front hall and opened the door.

Standing there was a tall, well built fellow in his mid 30s. Rufus quickly searched his prodigious memory - he knew the man, or at least had met him sometime in the past. The man reached up and removed his hat, a bowler and said, "Hello, Mr. Barrell. I suppose you might not remember me."

Rufus considered - briefly - bluffing and decided that honesty was indeed the best policy. He gave a small grin and told the man, "You do look familiar but I must confess I am drawing a blank as to your name."

The man extended his right hand. "Eddie Reed. We met back in... oh probably 1914 or so... it's been a long time."

Rufus did some more rifling through his mental rolodex and finally it came to him.

"You're a catcher... or were at least. Liberty College?"

The man's smile widened as he pumped Rufus' hand. "You're half right - I am, or rather was, a catcher. But I went to Penn Catholic."

Rufus looked sheepish. "Well, I suppose .500 isn't so bad," he said.

"Now I suppose the next question might just be why I'm standing on your doorstop," Reed asked.

"Forgive me, I've forgotten my manners, please come in," Rufus said and stepped back, waving the man in.

Reed walked in and stood in the hall, looking around curiously. "You're moving out?" he asked.

"Ah, well, temporarily. This house belongs to my business partner, Thomas Potentas. He's overseas at the moment and I am heading home to Georgia tomorrow."

Reed let out a relieved breath. "Then it appears I've caught you just in time."

Rufus led his guest into the sitting room and removed the sheet from the sofa. "Please, have a seat," he said and uncovered an armchair for himself.

After they both were seated, Rufus said, "Why don't you let me know what I can do for you?"

Reed smiled again. "I'm happy to see you're still a gentleman."

Rufus nodded his thanks and waited.

Reed took a moment to gather his thoughts and said, "I suppose I should start at the beginning."

"I was drafted in the ninth round back in 1914. Just the third draft ever," he smirked a bit at the memory. "Still, 9th round isn't that much to be boasting about."

Rufus waved a hand, "Anyone who gets drafted, regardless of the round, has something."

"Thank you for saying that. The Minutemen gave me three years, but I never made it past Springfield, Class A."

Rufus nodded. Jack had played there, though a few years after Reed would have been there.

"Boston cut me loose in 1917. I briefly considered joining the Army... there being a war on and all... but San Diego offered me a contract, so I went to California. I'd never been there before, I was born and raised in Connecticut and I hadn't been west of Ohio in all my life." He paused and took a deep breath. "I ended up playing for San Diego for nine years. I played my last game in 1926. Spent '27 as a kind of player-coach. Didn't play but they carried me on the roster. I mostly warmed up the pitchers and worked with them on the side."

Rufus nodded, knowing this was common for a lot of veteran backstops at the tail ends of their careers. "Go on," he prompted.

Reed continued, "When I started in the Great Western League there were only six teams so we saw a lot of the other guys. My favorite road trip was when we went north to play San Francisco. The Conquistadors were independent, but the Sailors were affiliated and I got to play a lot of guys who went on to play in the FABL. Anyway... whenever I was in the Bay Area to play the Sailors or Oakland, I'd go to this little sushi restaurant..."

"Sushi?" Rufus asked.

Reed chuckled. "Yes, it's Japanese. Raw fish, essentially."

Rufus made a face. "Raw?"

Reed laughed more heartily. "Yep. A lot more tasty than you'd think too. But to get back to the point, this fellow who owned the place was Japanese and he and his family all worked there. His wife, their two sons and one daughter." He paused and Rufus motioned for him to go on.

"So... the daughter and I... well, we ended up falling for each other. We were married in 1927. Her name is Fumiko."

Rufus was baffled, but interested and he waited while Reed gathered his thoughts.

"I suppose I should get to the point. I've been making yearly trips to Japan with my in-laws since I hung up the mask. It turns out the Japanese are almost as mad about baseball as we are here in the States. I've even coached a bit at one of their universities."

"I had heard that baseball was popular in Japan. It's fairly popular in some of the Caribbean and Latin American countries too," Rufus said.

Reed nodded. "Exactly. Well... the reason I'm here is that the Japanese want to start a professional league of their own. But first some of them were hoping that I could organize an exhibition tour by FABL players."

"Interesting idea," Rufus admitted. "Where do I fit in? Since I don't believe you're here telling me this because I have an interest in baseball."

Reed smiled warmly and said, "Well, I need someone to help round out the players and act as a... well... chaperone."

"Chaperone?" Rufus asked in a surprised tone.

"Yes... I took a few guys over there last year and their behavior was... well, somewhat offensive to the Japanese."

"Offensive how?" Rufus asked.

"Not much that would stand out here. I mean, you know how ballplayers are. Here it's pretty much just how things are." Reed spread his hands and continued, "But the Japanese culture is different enough that we need guys with a sense of decorum."

He looked sheepishly at his feet and added, "And well, you're generally considered a real gentleman and well... you know almost every worthwhile ballplayer in the league. So...."

Rufus shook his head, but he was grinning. "I understand you, Mr. Reed."

Rufus sat back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face and rubbed his chin.

"When would this tour take place?"

"We'd leave late October and come back in mid-December. Japan is a long ways away," Reed said.

"That I do know," Rufus replied. "And family?"

Now it was Reed's turn to look thoughtful. "I suppose we could bring your family along. The players? Our budget isn't very large, but if we found mostly bachelors, or guys with no kids who'd just bring their wives, that'd be manageable, I suppose."

Rufus was still thinking. He'd never been to Japan, and found the thought of going there quite enticing. "I wonder Mr. Reed, do you know just how large my family is?" he asked with a grin.

"I have to admit that I do not. I do seem to recall that you have some sons who play ball," he said.

"Yes. Five of them, actually. And three who don't. Plus a daughter. And my wife, of course." Rufus said and laughed out loud when he saw the stunned look on Reed's face.

"I think we could fit them all in, sir," he said, but he looked doubtful. Rufus decided not to mention the slew of grandchildren he and Alice had. It was unlikely that Joe, Rollie or Jack would want to go anyway.

"I'll need to check with my wife," Rufus said. "I learned long ago that a man's home might be his castle, but his wife rules the kingdom."

Reed joined Rufus in a laugh. "That's all I can ask, sir. Though time is of the essence of course," he finished.

"Yes, indeed. I'll start making some calls as soon as I get to Georgia. I have a few guys who fit the bill in mind and they're big names too."

The look of hope on Reed's face made Rufus feel good. He just had two problems: how to convince Alice and better yet, how to convince the players he had in mind that they should all take a two-month trip halfway around the world.

.

[legendsport]

Tokyo, Japan: December 3, 1930:

"Last day," Rufus told Alice as he pulled the knot of his tie up.

"Thankfully," his wife replied. She had not particularly enjoyed the trip and though she had kept this under wraps when they were not alone, she didn't spare Rufus from her true feeling when they were in their hotel room.

One of the Japanese newspapers was sponsoring the trip and from the time their ship arrived in Tokyo Bay on November 5th, the paper had put a lot of demands on the American group. Though they had played "only" 16 games (today's would be the 17th and final game of the tour), they had activities everyday. Some of the guys handled this better than others.

The trip hadn't started out all that well either. Two days out of Honolulu (where the Americans docked for a brief one-night layover en route from San Francisco to Tokyo), Harry had nearly caused a diplomatic incident.

Rufus' 17-year-old son was only on the trip because his parents were - he certainly wasn't one of the players (though he privately opined later that he could have played). The passengers on the Hawaii-to-Japan leg of the trip included a retired Japanese Admiral, who was a hero of the long-ago war between Russia and Japan. He also happened to be rotund and as bald as an egg. Harry and Bobby had immediately taken to calling him "Eggy" amongst themselves (and occasionally with some of the others as well). On the afternoon of their second day at sea, the Admiral had fallen asleep in a deck chair. Harry had crept up behind him and drawn an egg on the admiral's bald pate, adding stick arms and legs and a smiling face, then topped it off by printing "Eggy" over the top of it.

When the admiral awoke to find people pointing and staring, he was at first bewildered, but soon discovered what had happened. And though he couldn't know for certain who had done the "artwork" on his head, he strongly suspected Harry was the culprit. And he voiced this opinion to Rufus and Eddie Reed. Rufus had privately chastised his son, and Harry had duly apologized (with Bobby smirking in the background), but the damage had been done.

Then there were the players. Rufus had taken Reed's advice to heart and sought players who were generally considered to be well-behaved and mature, and specifically single or married without any children. Though he didn't quite fit the first requirement, the first player Rufus had approached was Max Morris. Morris refused, mentioning that he was going to be in Hollywood making a movie in November. Hiding his relief (though he didn't think Morris would be on good behaviour in Japan, he also felt he couldn't avoid asking him, given his status as the most famous ballplayer on the planet), Rufus had moved on to Rankin Kellogg of the Keystones. The big, genial (and according to some, dimwitted) first baseman had readily agreed after discovering he could bring his wife along. In all, the team featured 15 players (if you counted Eddie Reed, who was along as a third catcher) with Rufus getting Freddie a spot as the backup to T.R. Goins. The regular starters were Goins behind the plate, Kellogg at first, Gothams keystone Mose Christopher at second with his team mate Don Ward at the hot corner. Jack Cleaves of the Sailors manned shortstop (not his regular position for Philly, but one he had played well as an amateur). The outfield consisted of Baltimore's Lou Kelly (normally a first baseman) in left, Montreal centerfielder Cliff Moss and Detroit right fielder Al Wheeler. The pitchers were Baltimore's Rabbit Day, Lou Martino of the New York Stars, and a pair of young up & comers in the just-traded Milt Fritz and Tommy Wilcox of the Kings (when Reed had pressed Rufus on bringing only four pitchers, Rufus had grinningly told him that if those four weren't enough, he'd go to the mound himself). The bench were Reed, Fred Barrell, and Fred's team mate Russ Combs, an infielder who assured everyone he could play in the outfield in a pinch. Bobby naturally volunteered as a spare, as did Harry, but Rufus felt that would be a stretch. Tom had been offered the opportunity to join the group and refused, opting to stay home with his "flavor of the month" (Bobby's terminology), a red-head he'd met at Georgia Baptist named Elvira.

The games were somewhat farcical as the Americans won by scores like 23-1, 20-3 and 17-2. Kellogg would later reflect on the trip, noting that while the Japanese "were excellent fielders and some of the pitchers were pretty good, they couldn't hit worth a lick." He also noted that the Japanese players - all of whom were collegians - seemed star-struck to be on the same field with the Americans and remembered "one fellow hit a slow tapper to short, where Cleaves gloved it and made his usual clean throw. As I caught it, I looked and the batter was trotting down the line with a big grin on his face. I found their inability to take things seriously frustrating and wanted to sock the fellow in his nose."

For their part, the Japanese found the Americans attitude tough to swallow as well. One hitter tapped a ball back to Rabbit Day, who grinned, picked it up and tossed it to Don Ward at third, who then gunned it across to Kelly (spelling Kellogg that day) at first, and retiring the runner easily. To Day this was a joke, but to the Japanese it was an insult. So though there wasn't a lot of good feelings being generated amongst the players on both sides, the fans absolutely loved it. Well over 60,000 fans crammed into Kanda Stadium in Tokyo (which typically seated about half that many) to watch the Americans destroy their opponents 15-0 in the tour opener. The final game would also be played there. Along with five Kanda Stadium games, the Americans played in Osaka, Kyoto, Nagoya, Yokohama, Hiroshima and Kobe, and in each case the ballparks were packed.

After having his tie re-done by his wife, Rufus and Alice went down to the lobby where the group was meeting for the parade back to Kanda Stadium. And a parade is exactly what it was as the team rode in open cars down the Ginza with throngs of people cheering along the route.

"They sure do love their baseball here, Pop," Harry remarked. Rufus replied that Harry's observation was likely an understatement. He'd never seen anything like this back in the U.S., and he'd been to more World Championship Series games than he could count.

When they arrived at the stadium, they were escorted through the throng, with some of the players signing autographs along the way. Rufus noted that even Harry stopped to give out autographs. Alice snapped at him to stop, to which he replied, "Hey, they asked me! This wasn't my idea." Rufus frowned, then saw that Bobby was also signing autographs and shook his head. Then a little man with round spectacles ran up to him, saying "Barrell-san, Barrell-san!" and holding out a pen and paper. Rufus was astonished that this man knew who he was. He signed and handed the paper back to man. The man looked at the signature, frowned and looked up at Rufus. "Fred Barrell-san?" he asked. Now it was Alice's turn to laugh as Rufus tried to explain that Fred was his son. "I guess that poor man was fooled by the family resemblance, Rufus," his wife told him between chuckles. Rufus shook his head - Fred was 25 years old and Rufus was 57; he couldn't believe anyone could confuse him with his son.

Rufus got to put on a uniform again, as he had for each game of the tour. Reed had asked him to act as manager and he had gladly accepted, even if the role was largely ceremonial. Dan Prescott had even sent a Kings uniform for him to wear. He still had a strange feeling wearing a baseball uniform after so long, and the surreal nature of the tour didn't help. He joined the rest of the team on the field before the game for a bow to the (empty) Emperor's box and felt strange not hearing a national anthem or

The game, like all the others before it, was a lopsided affair. Fred got to catch the last three innings, only the third time Goins hadn't taken all the pitches in a game on the tour. "That fellow is made of iron, Pop," Fred had told his father one night. Fred doubled in his first at-bat and flied to left in his second, but the game was long decided by then as the Americans finished with a 17-0 record behind a combined three-hit shutout from Wilcox and Fritz in an 11-0 win.

The next morning, as a weary group trudged up the gangway to the ship that would carry them back to first Hawaii and then San Francisco, Rufus apologized to Eddie Reed.

"Why are you apologizing?" Reed asked, with a genuinely perplexed expression on his face.

"Why? Because we showed them up. I don't expect they'll want us back any time soon," Rufus explained. He was tempted to mention the "Eggy incident" but decided that might be a bit too much.

"Are you kidding? They loved it, Rufus. Loved it!" Reed rubbed his hands together. "I'm already in negotiations to do it again next fall."

Rufus shot Reed a look to see if he was putting him on. Reed laughed. "I'm serious," he said.

Rufus thought back over the past month and realized that if Reed asked him, he'd absolutely come back next year. Then he saw Alice looking at him with a raised eyebrow and resumed his walk up the gangway. "Discretion really is the better part of valor," he thought.


.

[legendsport]

Egypt, GA: December 25, 1930:

The home of Rufus and Alice Barrell was filled with joyful noise, so much so, that it took a few moments before anyone noticed that the telephone was ringing.

Rufus grabbed the earpiece and put it to his ear, leaning close to the box on the kitchen wall so he'd be able to be heard over the noise from the gathering in the other room.

The operator told him he had a long distance call and then put the caller through.

"Merry Christmas, Pop!" he heard his son Jack say. The connection was surprisingly good. Usually Rufus could barely hear when one of his sons called from whatever corner of North American they might currently be sitting in.

"Same to you, son," Rufus said with a smile on his face. He asked, as he usually did, where his son was.

"I'm in Montreal. We have a game with the Nationals today," Jack said.

"And how are things, coach?" Rufus asked.

"I'm still getting used to this coaching thing. But I've got some games under my belt now, so the fellows are becoming accustomed to taking direction from me. It's hard to make that transition from teammate to boss, you know?"

"I suppose I can see that, although I was never a manager or coach myself," Rufus said.

Jack explained that the Dukes were part of a three-way race in the North American Hockey Conference's Canadian Division. "The Nationals are sort of the weak sister here in Montreal. This is really the Valiants' town," Jack explained. "But I've already told my players that we can't afford to take this club lightly. They've already beaten us twice this season, so hopefully that message has sunk in."

Rufus caught his son up on how his siblings were doing. Joe was back with Dorothy, having promised to cut down on his drinking and had been offered a job coaching college football at Gates University. The school was located in Malibu and therefore close enough to Hollywood that Dorothy could continue her acting career. The Gates Griffins were trying to break into the big time and getting a long-time pro like Joe was seen as a good recruiting tool if nothing else. Even Joe admitted that he had no coaching experience, though he had spent years working with Carl Boon who was considered one of the better pro coaches (something for which Jack himself could vouch as he'd played for Carl for years himself). Joe's newest son Charlie was five months old and doing well.

Rollie was at the farm, his Detroit Maroons having completed their season with a championship. Due to financial constraints, Rollie had been forced to sell shares in the team, many of which were bought by local fans. He had admitted to Rufus that this had saved the team as the club was good, and the players needed to be paid accordingly. Francie had recovered from the birth of their second child, and young Alice was now nearly a year old, and though small, seemed to be healthy after a somewhat precarious first few months of life.

Danny was also on hand. His wife Gladys had lost her job with the Brooklyn basketball club when the league suspended its operations. Dan Prescott had promised to bring her back if the basketball league returned to action, but Rollie had privately warned her that he thought it could be several years before the league could resume, and even that was no sure thing. Dan himself was increasingly frustrated with his lack of playing time. He had spent the '30 season in A ball, where he hit .348 in a largely pinch-hitting role before being returned to AAA where he hit .238, also mostly as a pinch-hitter. He was considering going into coaching, possibly back at Capital Academy where he had been offered the job as the Track & Field coach. Rufus was advising him to stick it out for at least one more year.

Fred had won his bet with Dan by driving in 101 runs for the Chicago Cougars that season. He hit .324 and was considered one of the better catchers in the FABL despite having barely 200 games with the Cougars under his belt. His wife Tillie was a fixture at Cougar home games, sitting in a box right beside the home dugout and offering loud encouragement to not only Freddie, but also his team mates. "She might be our biggest fan," Cougars manager Hank Sims had told Rufus, who after attending a game with Tillie, wholeheartedly agreed with Sims' assessment. Alice had already begun hinting to both Dan and Fred about grandchildren. In Dan's case it was Gladys' career that had held things up; but in Fred's it was as he told his mother, a case of "wanting to enjoy ourselves a little before getting tied down with children."

Tommy was, like Fred, a member of the Cougars organization; the only difference being that Fred had earned a spot on the Cougars' roster while Tommy was still a farmhand. An injury shortened his first pro season. He had been great at Class A Lincoln (9-6, 2.68 ERA, 114 strikeouts in 110.2 innings) and considerably less so at Double A Mobile (2-3, 6.48 ERA with 16 walks to 12 strikeouts in 33.1 innings pitched). His dream of being a two-way star was, he felt, somewhat in jeopardy due to his injuries. Rufus knew, from his contacts in the Cougars' scouting department, that another factor was that Tommy hadn't quite shown the form at the plate that he had in college where in the 1929 season he'd hit .335 and clubbed 11 home runs. One of the scouts also mentioned to Rufus that some in the organization thought Tom was a little too fond of the ladies and that he needed to concentrate more on his conditioning. Rufus took this with a grain of salt - the scout in question was of the school that believed a woman sapped a ballplayer's stamina, something Rufus himself did not believe. Still, he knew he wouldn't mention this to Alice, but might have a word with Tommy about it.

Bobby continued to be a revelation. The 1930 season was just his second as a pro, and unlike Fred, he had not played in college but came straight out of high school. While Bobby had climbed through Classes C, B and A in 1929, he spent all of '30 in Double A and, by any estimation, tore it up. He hit .353, racking up an even 200 hits in 567 at-bats, He had 20 doubles, 11 triples and 23 home runs, drove in 122 runs and scored 97 (there was no chance either Fred or Dan would make a bet with Bobby on offensive stats). Rufus had heard from a friend in the Keystones front office that the team thought there was a good chance Bob would open the '31 season on the big league roster. Bobby was, as far as Rufus had heard, the complete opposite of Tom when it came to his off-field life. More plainly, Rufus had heard that Bobby had very little use for anything not related to baseball. The Japanese tour might have been the only thing that kept him from going to Cuba to play winter ball (assuming the Keystones would have allowed it). More so than his other sons, Bobby seemed determined to be the best ballplayer he could be and nothing else mattered to him.

Then there was Harry. He had hit .371 as a high school junior and his fielding was likely already FABL quality. The trip to Japan had proven as much when Harry had convinced Rufus to let him take some infield practice with the touring team. Both Don Ward and Jack Cleaves had told Rufus they thought Harry's glove was right there with the best of the FABL players. "If he can hit, he's going to be something," Rankin Kellogg had told Bobby, who passed it along to his father. But his attitude... Harry was a prankster at heart and while this made him popular with his team mates, it did not endear him to his teachers and school administrators. Rufus had already told his youngest son that he needed to take this final season of high school baseball seriously - and that included taking school itself seriously. "The FABL clubs are run by older men. And even though most of them played the game, they expect youngsters like you to take this seriously. Baseball is first and foremost, to them at least, a serious business where money is arguably more important than wins. So keep the shenanigans to a minimum. There'll be plenty of time for goofing off later." Harry had assured his father he would do this... Rufus wasn't quite convinced.

Betsy had added golf to her resume. Like Rollie, she seemed a natural and when Rollie and Francie arrived in mid-December, Francie had played a round with Betsy, noting that the 16-year-old was every bit as good as she had been at that age. And Francie York had been one of the top amateur players in the U.S. She also played tennis at a high level and had even continued to occasionally worm her way into baseball and basketball games with Harry and his friends (some of whom found it amusing until she showed that like her brothers she had plenty of athletic ability). Both Noble Jones and Georgia Baptist were already trying to get her to play tennis at their schools. She was lukewarm to their entreaties however, due in large part to having acquired a boyfriend. A team mate of Harry's, Chris Clarke was a smallish (5'8) left-handed pitcher who had just started his freshman year at Wisconsin State. Betsy pined for him, which Alice found amusing and Rufus, annoying. Clarke had gone undrafted in 1929, and though Rufus thought he could possibly turn into something at college, that remained to be seen. In the meantime, he wished Betsy focused more on herself insead of pining for a boy who was currently enjoying his first northern winter (he'd written Betsy a letter describing his first snowball fight).

The grandchildren were also doing well. Joe's oldest son Rufus was now 13 and the hottest pitching prospect to hit the Atlanta area since his Uncle Tommy a few years before. Unlike most left-handed pitchers, young Rufus threw hard and his grandfather expected he could very well be amongst the game's hardest throwers. Tall and gangly, he needed to fill out, but with Joe as his father, that seemed to be preordained. His sister Gloria was a good student and reminded her grandparents of a female version of Rollie, which thrilled them both. Jimmy's two children, Agnes (now 11) and James (10) were happy and healthy and in James' case, getting a doctoral-level education in baseball thanks to his adopted father, the great hitter Powell Slocum. All in all, everyone was doing well, despite the growing fears of the economic downturn becoming a depression (some newspaper editorials were already describing it that way, though the Hoover administration continued to stress that it was a temporary setback and things would normalize soon).

Though Rufus and Alice both missed Joe and Jack and their families, they knew how blessed they were in their family. As Rufus looked around at the crowd in his home, he told Alice, "We might need to put an addition on the house if this family keeps growing."


.

[legendsport]

Mobile, AL: April 23, 1931:

"Why 45?"

Tom Barrell was seated in front of his locker, bent over as he finished putting on his spikes. The voice came from behind him. It was unfamiliar, and he finally replied, "Huh?"

"I asked why you're wearing number 45. I'd imagine they'd have given you practically any number you'd want," the voice replied in an accent that indicated the speaker wasn't from the deep South.

Tom finished knotting his shoelaces and stood up. His jersey hung in his locker, only the right side of the "5" visible. So obviously this guy knew the rest of his number.

"Well, you'd be wrong mister. I asked for number nine, truth be told," Tom said.

Then he turned around and took a look at the man for the first time. He was a tall, thin guy, probably in his thirties. Didn't really look like a sportswriter, which was what Tom had assumed he was, given the lack of introduction and expectation that Tom would just answer any question thrown his way.

The man thrust out a hand. "Brinker's my name. John Brinker," he said and shot a grin at Tom that didn't quite seem to reach his eyes.

"Tom Barrell," Tom replied, though he figured this guy knew that too, given he knew what number he wore on his back, even when he wasn't wearing it.

"Oh, yes, I knew that. I'm a writer," he said and then quickly added, "not a sportswriter mind you, but a feature writer."

Tom cocked an eyebrow. "You work for a paper, right? So what's the difference?"

Brinker puffed up and said, "Well, for starters I don't follow a team, I get to pick and choose my stories. I've covered everything from train robberies to bake sales."

"Bake sales?" Tom asked, trying his best not to laugh at this obviously self-important fellow.

"Yes, well, that was early in my career."

"You write here, in Mobile?" While Tom had never seen this guy before, he was still fairly new to the team; although he had made five starts at Mobile the previous season, this was going to be his first appearance of this brand-new 1931 season. One in which he hoped to finish in Milwaukee and dreamed that he'd finish in Chicago.

"No, I write for the Chicago Evening Times," Brinker said with that same self-important look on his face.

"We're pretty far from Chicago, friend," Tom pointed out, wondering what this guy wanted from him.

"True. I'm doing a feature on you and your brother Fred."

Ah, so that was it. The old sibling angle, Tom thought. He nodded his head and said, "Okay, then. But there's something you should know."

Brinker looked confused and asked, "What's that?"

"I'm starting today and some say it's bad luck to talk to a starting pitcher before the game." Tom paused and watched as Brinker began to look uncomfortable. He decided to let the guy off the hook. "But since I'm not a superstitious type, I suppose we can chat."

Brinker smiled and thanked Tom, then asked again: "So why 45?"

Tom smiled. "Well, as a I said I wanted nine but it's taken."

"Why'd you want to wear number nine?"

Tom's grin grew even wider. "Because when I take the mound I always plan on going nine."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A little over two hours later, Tom was just a couple of outs away from what would be just his second career shutout. His first had come the year before at Single A Lincoln. Of course, nothing beat the perfect game he had thrown in college against North Carolina Tech, but he'd take a five-hit shutout any day of the week.

Tossing a shutout against Knoxville would be even sweeter: the Knights were expected to be the Commodores main competition for the Dixie League pennant. And though Tom hoped to be doing bigger and better things in September, if he was going to finish the year in Mobile, he wanted to win the pennant. Still... first start of the year, but his father had always said, one game at a time and a win in April is just as important as a win in September.

What made the game with Knoxville even more interesting was that his brother Dan was playing first base for the Knights. The pair had caught up the night before. Dan, at age 26, was unhappy - to say the least - about being in Double A. Tom, just 23, felt like this was just a way station on the way to the Cougars. Dan was starting to doubt if he'd ever get back to the Kings. "Maybe that 2-for-16 back in '28 is all I'm ever going to have," he told Tom over dinner. Tom had told him to keep working and Dan had replied that he sounded just like Rufus. "Well, sometimes the old man's right, Danny," Tom replied.

Danny did have one of the Knights five hits on the day, and it was even a double - the only extra-base hit Tom had surrendered thus far. The hitter now was an outfielder named Elmer Nolde. He and Tom had faced off once in the AIAA tournament in college - Tom playing for Georgia Baptist and Nolde for Coastal California. Nolde had shown big, big power in college with 21 homers in 179 at-bats as a senior. Of course, Tom had been tough to hit, and surrendered only five homers all season long, and he'd kept Nolde at bay. In fact, Tom handled Nolde pretty well both in college and thus far today.

Nolde dug in. Ninth inning, Mobile up 3-0, one out and none on. Tom had walked two, allowed the five hits and struck out six. He felt great. He had spotted John Brinker sitting in the stands behind home plate, writing in a notebook as he watched the game. Brinker was watching him now, the notebook closed on his lap.

Tom turned his attention back to Elmer Nolde. Woody Dudley, the catcher, flashed the sign for a fastball. Tom nodded - his fastball was fast, among the fastest in the Dixie League, he liked throwing it and his command on this fine April afternoon had been outstanding. He went into his windup, one his father had honed with him on the makeshift diamond on the family farm. Tom's mechanics were always top-notch. He reared back and unleashed a fastball that had lost maybe one or two miles per hour since the first one he threw in the very first inning. Nolde took. Strike one, inside corner, thigh high.

Tom caught the return throw from Dudley and spit in the dirt at his feet as he turned and walked back up behind the rubber. He turned, saw Dudley ask for the changeup. He briefly considered shaking him off - he had been thinking of doubling up on the heater. Instead he nodded, deferring to the catcher on this one.

His metronomic windup was followed by a motion that was a near duplicate of his last delivery. But this pitch was significantly slower and Nolde got out in front and whiffed on it. Strike two.

As Tom closed his glove on Dudley's toss, he was thinking fastball again. Tom had a third pitch he had been working on the past couple of seasons... a slider. His curveball wasn't of much use and he had nearly stopped using it; the plan was to use the slider instead. But he wasn't sold on it yet, even though he had spent a lot of time working on it with Rufus over the winter.

Dudley called for the slider. Tom shook him off, thinking fastball. Dudley scratched at the dirt between his knees (Tom wondered if this was a tell that the catcher was unhappy at getting the shake-off), then Dudley put down the sign. Fastball. Tom nodded.

Same delivery, same motion, same whiplike arm motion. Then a tearing pain in his right shoulder as he released the ball. Tom's grunt of effort became a groan of agony. He barely registered that Nolde had put the ball in play. It was a fly ball, easily captured by Joe Johnson out in center. Tom didn't care about that, his entire mind aflame with the pain in his shoulder. After his injury-riddled season the year before, terrible thoughts came immediately to his mind.

He bent at the waist, his right arm hanging limp, his left hand cupping his right shoulder. There were tears of pain in his eyes as the shortstop brought the ball to the mound. He was there only a few moments before the trainer, the catcher and manager were all there as well. Tom's day was done... one out short of a season-opening shutout. And worse yet, he soon found out that his season was in jeopardy as well.

.

[legendsport]

Baltimore, MD: May 20, 1931:

"Naw, that's not how you do it, Barrell," Jim Crawford said. Then he held up a finger, raised an eyebrow, turned his head and shot a stream of tobacco juice at the drain in the dugout floor. "Bullseye, son!" he exclaimed and pointed that same finger at the drain.

Fred snorted. "Don't call me son. I'm older than you are, Red Stick," he told Crawford.

The pitcher, born in Baton Rouge, who had been dubbed 'Red Stick' by Fred the year before, allowed that this was true, but since the difference was only a couple of months and Fred couldn't even spit properly, he wasn't due any extra respect due to his "seniority."

"That logic is fallacious," Fred said with a chuckle.

"Now don't you go all college boy on me, Barrell," Crawford said and then spat again. "Now show me something... son," he added with a wink.

Fred had only recently started chewing tobacco. Growing up he'd often seen ol' Possum with a bulge in his cheek, spitting nasty-looking brown juice in the dirt. It'd just never been something he'd wanted to do. Now... many of his team mates did it, so he had given it a shot. The first few times, he'd felt sick, now he could stomach it, but his "spitting technique," as Crawford put it, needed some work.

He was working up some extra spit when Crawford pointed out to the field. "Looks like you're about to be on deck."

Fred nodded and began pulling his chest protector off. He'd leave his shin guards on... just in case. There were two outs, and Tom Taylor was at the plate, with Vince York on deck. That pair had been on a tear thus far in what was still a very young season. But the Cougars were now a factor in the pennant race. The home-standing Baltimore Cannons were currently in first place while the Cougars were third, but only a couple games back. Chicago had taken the series opener the day before and, even better, wouldn't see Rabbit Day this series. The Cannons were loaded with pitching talent and Day was the best of the bunch.

Fred stood up and walked down to the bat rack, passing John Dibblee who was sitting in his usual spot beside the bats. The now 42-year-old legend was likely playing his final season, and only played sparingly. He had gone 2-for-5 in the victory the day before and was not playing today as he rarely played back-to-back games any longer. He gave Fred a nod. Fred felt a twinge of sympathy for Dibblee who had clearly lost bat speed. He was still very dangerous, but only in spurts, and with Tom Taylor, Vince York and Cy Bryant all excelling in the outfield, his days as a regular were definitely over.

Fred watched as Cannons pitcher Ken Carpenter delivered a two-ball, two-strike fastball to the switch-hitting Taylor. "The Canadian Club," hitting right-handed against the southpaw Carpenter, swung from the heels and sent a soaring fly ball to left. Cannons left fielder Lou Kelly barely moved, turning to watch as the ball landed in Banner Field's bleachers, making it 3-0 Cougars in the sixth.

Fred joined his team mates on the dugout steps, greeting Taylor as he came in after circling the bases. Then he bent down and unstrapped his shin guards, tossing them next to his catcher's mitt as he went out to the on-deck circle. Vince York flew out on the first pitch, so Fred was buckling the equipment back on a moment later. Still, he'd be leading off the seventh and had taken a collar so far. Carpenter who came into the game 7-1 wasn't at his sharpest, and Fred was hoping to get a hit in his next at-bat.

Jim Crawford set the Cannons down in order in the home sixth. After Fred grounded out for the third time, he again plopped himself down next to the hurler. It was his practice to always sit next to the pitcher, so they could compare notes and talk strategy for the opposition's hitters. Fred had quickly discovered that pitchers were a mixed bag of quirks, insecurities, and qualities mostly good and occasionally bad. Crawford, for example, was very smart and analytical, but also liked to have fun, meaning Fred sometimes needed to prod him to take things seriously. Dick Lyons, the best of the bunch (in Fred's opinion), was somewhat reclusive but professional to the core - his discussions with Fred were straight to the point and he didn't mess around - ever - when he was pitching. Dick Luedtke was a bit looser than Lyons, but cut from a similarly professional mold. Max Wilder was a veteran with a decade of FABL under his belt who was willing to share his knowledge and Fred had learned a lot from speaking with him between innings. Steve Castellini was the old man of the bunch at 36. He'd been a Cougar, then went to the Gothams, and had returned to the Cougars this offseason after leading the Federal Association in ERA the year before. He was a competitor and, at his age, was always on the lookout for an edge. He knew more about hitters than anyone Fred had ever met, but his tools were fading and he had resorted to, as he put it, "out-thinking the other guys," which was sometimes code for doctoring the ball.

Today Crawford was mostly serious and continued to cruise. The game ended when he retired Doc Cleveland on a grounder to second base. As Fred lifted his mask and trotted out to congratulate his pitcher, he realized that the Cougars had an excellent chance to win the pennant this season.

In the clubhouse, Fred was joking with Bill Ashbaugh when Hank Sims walked over, a serious look on his face.

"Give us a minute, will you, Bill?" he said to Ashbaugh who nodded at the skipper, gave Fred a wide-eyed look, and walked off.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Detroit, MI: Same Day:

Bobby Barrell was sitting at his locker, in a bit of a daze. He was a big leaguer now, having made the Keystones out of spring training at the ripe old age of 19. He was playing right field every day and while he would have preferred to be in center, he certainly wasn't complaining. The Keystones were good too, and Bobby thought that he could really get used to this.

"Nice going, kid," said Rankin Kellogg as he sat down at his locker, which was - by Kellogg's request - right next to Bobby's whether at home or on the road. The Keystones had just finished downing the Detroit Dynamos 10-4 at Thompson Field. Bobby had gone 5-for-5 with two doubles, two runs scored and an RBI. He'd found that hitting right in front of Rankin Kellogg, and being a rookie, meant he saw a lot of good pitches to hit. And so far, he was taking full advantage of that.

He and Kellogg struck up a conversation about Bobby's at-bats, something they did after every game. Kellogg, good to his word, had taken Bobby under his wing, imparting the wisdom he'd gleaned over his six seasons as a Keystone. Coming from a man who'd managed to hit fewer than 30 homers just once (29, in 1926), failed to hit at least .330 twice (his first two seasons, .328 and .326) and had led the league in runs, RBIs, triples, batting average, on-base percentage and walks (the last of which he'd done five of his first six seasons), Bobby knew he needed to hang on his every word.

Kellogg was asking Bobby how he'd recognized the curveball he'd ripped into the gap for his first double when they were approached by manager Columbus Tuck.

"Barrell, I need to see you in my closet," Tuck said, nodding towards the small office the Dynamos afforded the visiting skipper.

"Sure thing, boss," Bobby said and stood up. He locked eyes with Kellogg who gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug, and then followed Tuck.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Washington, DC: Same Day:

"Mr. Barrell? Your wife is on the phone," Mary called from the outer office.

"Call me Rufus, Mary!" Rufus shouted back good-naturedly. He waited a beat to see if she would apologize, as she usually did, when she "broke" his unwritten rule about calling him by his first name. He frowned a little when she failed to do so, then reached out and picked up the phone.

"Hello my darling," he said into the mouthpiece.

For a second he heard nothing, then he heard a sniffle and Alice said in a voice laden with sadness, "Rufus, my father died."

Rufus choked up and couldn't speak for a long moment. "When?" he finally managed to croak.

Alice explained that Harry had found him when he'd come in from school. Grandpa Joe had been planning to go see Harry's game that afternoon. They were playing Macon and old Joe had always enjoyed that particular rivalry. Harry had found his grandfather slumped in his favorite chair next to the radio. The radio was tuned to WSB with a news bulletin playing when Harry came into the room.

"He's just a boy, Rufus," Alice sniffled then continued, "I can't imagine him finding his grandfather like that."

Rufus noted that Harry was light-hearted by nature and much more likely to bounce back from this than some of his brothers might have been.

Joe Reid was 77 years old and had been in declining health for over a decade, his zest for life having left him after he lost both his wife (to the influenza epidemic in 1919) and his role as the president of the Atlanta Peaches of the Dixie League at nearly the exact same time.

Rufus spent nearly forty minutes on the phone with his wife. They reminisced about their own meeting, back in 1890, when Rufus was trying to catch on as a 16-year-old pitcher with Joe's Savannah ballclub and Alice had been her father's do-everything assistant, running the ticket booth, handling the clubhouse and doing nearly everything Joe himself didn't do. Joe Reid had taught his young pitcher and eventual son-in-law a lot about baseball. As a former catcher, Reid had an encyclopedic knowledge of the game, much of which he passed along to Rufus as the son he'd never had. He'd also doted on his slew of grandchildren and reveled in the fact that both Fred and Bobby had made it to the FABL, while Danny still had a shot and Tom looked like a lock. Harry, old Joe had once told Rufus, might end up being the best of the bunch.

"Harry told me that Dad had been acting as if he knew this was coming," Alice told Rufus. She explained that Harry had said that his grandfather had told him that "when I go, I don't want Danny, Freddy, Tommy or Bobby... or even you, Buster, to miss any playing time on my account." Harry noted that "Gramps looked more serious than I'd seen him in a long time, and added that his time was past and that the Barrell boys needed to take care of their own careers as that would be the best tribute they could pay to an old, broken-down ballplayer like himself."

Rufus, tearfully, acknowledged that he expected his sons might not want to adhere to their grandfather's wishes. While Tommy was hurt and would be able to attend, Danny was frustrated with playing in Double A and Rufus knew that both Fred and Bobby would want to leave their teams. He also knew that old Joe had been right: they needed to stay with their ballclubs and he would tell them so.

Of the older boys, he knew Rollie and Jack would be there. Joe... he wasn't sure. While his acting career was over, he was devoted to his fledgling career as a football coach - and he was all the way out on the West Coast to boot.

"He'd better come," Alice grumbled. "Dad was his namesake and he loved that boy - his very first grandson."

Rufus agreed. But he just wasn't sure Joe would show - and if he didn't, what would that do to his relationship with his mother?

.

[legendsport]

Toronto, ON: June 9, 1931:

"How do you think I should vote?"

Jack Barrell chewed his lip for a moment, but the answer seemed pretty obvious. "I say you vote yes. We need the extra income. My boys won't like it all that much, but I'll stress that this is still a business first and foremost and that should help soften the blow."

David Welcombe nodded. "That's the way I see it too, Jack. I'm glad we're in accord on this."

The question was whether the Toronto Dukes would vote in favor of extending the NAHC season to 48 games. Jack, as a former player, knew the players wouldn't necessarily like the extra games since their salaries wouldn't be growing. But with the ongoing economic situation, the Dukes - and all the NAHC clubs - were attempting to increase what had been steadily declining revenues over the past two seasons.

"More games means more tickets sold and that means more money, seems straightforward," Jack told his club's owner.

Jack was now fully settled in to his role as the coach of the Dukes. He hadn't yet officially filed his retirement papers with the league, but that was a formality. He didn't plan on suiting up as a player this coming season unless injuries left the club short-handed. He simply couldn't skate as well as he could in his prime. Age and injuries had taken their toll.

Welcombe shifted gears on him and asked, "How was the funeral?"

Jack had just returned to Toronto after spending two weeks in Georgia. The funeral for Joe Reid had been a who's who of retired baseball players, coaches, managers and executives. Robert Owings, the President of FABL was there; so was George Theobald, who had played against Joe back in the 1880s. All the Barrells were there, except - as per Joe's request - his professional baseball-playing grandsons Dan, Fred, and Bobby. On the day of the funeral, May 23, Bobby had gone 5-for-5 against the Washington Eagles, with a double, two triples and an RBI, scoring four runs in an 8-4 victory he dedicated to his grandfather's memory.

Of the four Barrells who were now professional ballplayers only Tommy was there, his arm still in a sling as he protected his tender right shoulder. His season was done, but he was determined to be back at full strength for the '32 season.

Joe was there, along with Dorothy and their young son Charlie. Edna was there with Joe's two older children who both knew and loved old Joe Reid, especially Rufus (or Deuce as Joe called him) who old Joe had once proclaimed would be the best ballplayer of all the Barrells. Rollie, Francie and their daughters were there too. Jack and Marie had brought their daughters too. Agnes had cried almost inconsolably; as the oldest of Jack and Marie's girls, she knew and loved her great-grandfather who had called her "Lamb" and spoiled her like crazy.

Claudia Slocum was there - Powell was now managing the Pittsburgh Miners and couldn't be there, but Claudia made sure that James was there to honor his great-grandfather.

Then there was Possum Daniels, who'd given a heartfelt and bittersweet eulogy to the man he called his mentor.

"Joe Reid might have been a Yankee from Philadelphia," Possum had said, "but he became a true son of the South and stayed in Georgia long after he had any reason to. I reckon that if he had played his hand differently, he might have given Mr. Theobald," a nod towards the pew were George Theobald was sitting with his wife, "a run for his money as the all-time winningest skipper in the game."

Theobald smiled and nodded.

Possum continued, "Ol' Joe gave me a job when no one else took me seriously. As a former backstop himself, he knew what I was going through and he guided me every step of the way. More times than I'd like to admit, that meant a swift kick in the tail... and we all know Joe could kick some tail when took a mind to."

Possum paused, and brushed away a tear. "That old man was the orneriest cuss I ever saw, and as ready a scrapper as you'd ever hope to find," he said, and a grin creased his weatherbeaten face as he continued, "I recall one time when we got into a brouhaha with Columbia. Joe and I waded in... and in the heat of the moment he misremembered who I was and socked me one that put me flat on my backside. That old man packed a wallop, I tell y'all true." Laughter broke out in the audience. Rufus nodded with a sad smile on his face - he remembered the incident well, though he'd spent most of it buried in the dogpile.

"Best of all, ol' Joe gave a chance to the country-est rube you could ever hope to find... a lanky right-handed kid who had more oomph in his arm than brains in his head," he paused and winked at Rufus. "Shoot, ol' Joe even let that boy marry his onliest daughter, the beautiful, hot-headed Miss Peaches," now he winked at Alice. "And I'll love ol' Joe for that forever a'cause that boy grew to be my best friend. And he and Peaches gave ol' Joe a slew of grandbabies, all of whom made that ol' backstop prouder than any man alive."

Possum looked down and sniffled, took a breath and said, "That ornery cuss... he taught me how to be a catcher, how to be a manager, and most of all, how to be a man. I reckon my buddy Rufus would say mostly the same - he not being smart enough to be a catcher a'course," more laughter, "but that was ol' Joe. The best teacher, the best friend, the best mentor any ballplayer could ever hope to find."

Jack related all this to David Welcombe. Welcombe hadn't known Joe Reid, and had a rudimentary knowledge - at best - of baseball despite being the owner of the Toronto Wolves. "It sounds like your grandfather was a much-beloved fellow," Welcombe said.

Jack laughed. "Well, he was a cantankerous old man, but he sure did have a lot of people who knew and liked him, despite having punched a lot of them," he said. "And my father did say that Gramps taught him more about baseball and life than he could have learned from a hundred books."

Welcombe smiled. "I do know your father, and if he says that Joe Reid taught him everything he knows, then Mr. Reid must have been a capital fellow and a baseball encyclopedia."

Jack wiped at his right eye. "He was something else, that's for sure," he said.

.

[legendsport]

Malibu, CA: August 3, 1931:

"I'm sorry Joe, but we're shutting down the program."

Joe Barrell took a deep breath. Dorothy had found some quack whose specialty was "emotional management" and convinced Joe to see him. The "doctor" had advised Joe that before he lost his temper he should take a deep breath, count to three in his head, and then respond.

Joe counted to three and found, somewhat surprisingly, that the angry exclamation that had been on the tip of his tongue was now more easily suppressed.

"I think this is a mistake, Dean Williams," he said with an even-tempered tone that belied the fury he felt.

He continued, "We've got a great group of young men. I feel like we can be respectable against schools like Coastal Cal, CCLA and some of the other big schools. In a few years, we'll be contending, I can almost guarantee it."

The dean shook his head. "There's simply no money, Joe. This isn't a slight on your ability at all, or the prospects for success on the gridiron. It's just financial reality."

Joe frowned. "This is short-sighted, dean. I expect the university will come to regret it."

The dean shook his head as he said, again, "I'm sorry, Joe. We will of course write any recommendations you might need." Joe wanted to punch the guy in the face, but he genuinely did seem to be sorry. Joe realized that Dean Williams had been the one who hired Joe to guide the fledgling program, so perhaps his remorse wasn't feigned. That wouldn't put any food on the table, though.

"Thanks, Dean Williams," said as he stood and shook hands. As he left the dean's office he wondered how he'd break the news to Dorothy.

"At least I have some time to come up with something," he thought as he walked towards the practice field where he was going to break the news to his players. As for his wife, she was shooting a Western out in Monument Valley and wouldn't be back in town for another week.

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A week later Joe was at home, sitting on the floor playing blocks with his son. The kid, blonde like his mother, but big for his age like Joe, was growing like a weed and seemed, according to everyone, "smart as a whip" though Joe didn't really see it. He was barely toddling around and could say just a handful of words, how in the world could they tell if he was smart or not?

Joe had only half his attention on the blocks; Dorothy was due to return from Utah that afternoon. The phone rang. Joe handed a block to his son, told him, "Be right back, Charlie," stood up and walked over to the telephone.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Joe Barrell?" an unfamiliar voice asked.

"Yes, this is Joe," Joe replied.

"Joe, this is Hank Moorehead." Joe quickly tried to remember if he knew a Hank Moorehead. Then it hit him - Moorehead was the coach of Coastal California.

"What can I do for you, Coach Moorehead?" he asked.

Joe heard a dry chuckle from Moorehead who then explained, "This is more about what I can do for you, Joe."

"Oh? What's that?"

"I heard what happened at Gates, and I was sorry to hear it. This economy..." he trailed off briefly then spoke again, "Anyway, it occurred to me that you might be looking to keep your hand in, so to speak."

"Well, let's just say I don't have anything going on at the moment," Joe replied, trying to keep his voice level to hide his building excitement. Coastal California's program was one of the two or three best college football programs in the nation and Moorehead was a coaching legend.

"Fair enough. I had my backfield coach leave to take a job at Red River State, so we have an opening. Any interest in working with me here at Coastal?"

Joe wanted to shout "hell yes!" but instead said, "Thank you for thinking of me, coach. I sure appreciate it."

"Does that mean you're interested?"

"Sure, I'm interested. It'd be an honor to work with you, Coach Moorehead."

"Call me Hank, please, Joe."

"Thanks, Hank. Can I ask what the particulars are?" Joe asked.

Moorehead quoted a number. It was a nice number, representing about three-quarters of what Gates had been paying him to coach the whole team, not just the backs. He swallowed another shout of joy and said, "That's mighty fair of you, Hank."

Moorehead asked, "Does that mean you're going to take the job, then?"

Joe smiled and replied, "Oh, yes. I'd be honored, Hank. When do I start?"

Moorehead laughed and said, "Well, come on by this afternoon and let's see what we can do to get you up to speed. We're only four weeks from our first game."

Joe thanked him again and then hung up. He ran over to his son, who had lined up three blocks that spelled C-A-T. Joe frowned for a second, looking at it and wondering, "That's got to be a coincidence. The kid can't be spelling words, he's not even two years old." Nevertheless he scooped Charlie up and began dancing around the room, shouting "Coastal California! I can't believe it, I'm going to coach at Coastal California!"

He was still dancing around with a laughing Charlie in his arms when Dorothy opened the door and stopped short, staring. Behind her, the cabbie, his arms full of her luggage also stopped and stared. Joe didn't care. He danced over to his wife and planted a big kiss on her with their giggling son wedged between them.

"You haven't been drinking again, have you Joe?" Dorothy asked.

Joe laughed and shook his head. "Nope, but have I got some great news," he said.

.

[legendsport]

Philadelphia, PA: September 21, 1931:

The Detroit Dynamos were in town and the Keystones needed a win to stay alive in their quest to win the Federal Association pennant. Bobby was fully aware that his brother Fred's Chicago Cougars would be taking the field in an hour to square off with the Montreal Saints. A win by the Cougars and they'd clinch the Continental Association pennant. Bobby's dream of playing his brother for the World Championship was so near... and yet so far. And that was because of the New York Gothams.

The Gothams had traded for Max Morris, the game's premier slugger and probably the most valuable hitter to ever step onto a FABL ballfield. Bobby knew his brother Dan had a special dislike for Morris. Bobby himself found the 36-year-old larger than life and he'd been friendly when the Keystones first played the Gothams back in May. New York was just loaded. Bud Jameson, Don Ward, Joe Perret, all were great players. The pitching was headed up by Jim Lonardo, an out-of-nowhere ace who was closing in on 20 victories. They also had Walter Murphy and Al Allen, son of the guy whose name graced the FABL pitching award. Worst of all, they had a four-game lead on Philadelphia and it looked like the 'Stones would need help to claim the pennant. There were only five games left in the season.

The visiting Dynamos were not a club to be dismissed lightly themselves. They'd won the pennant - and the FABL championship - just two seasons earlier and most of the guys on that club were still around, headlined by the "Dynamic" trio of Frank Vance, Al Wheeler and Henry Jones. Roy Calfee, their ace, had won 26 and 20 games the last two seasons respectively and came into this game with 18, so Bobby expected him to bear down in a quest for a 19th win that would let him possibly make it three straight 20-win seasons in the season finale later that week.

As the game got underway, Bobby concentrated on simply doing his job. To his right, fellow rookie Grover Lee was in center with Lee Smith, the regular centerfielder starting in left in place of hobbled regular Phil Sandman. On the hill for the Keystones was ace Bill Ross. At just 5'7, Ross was undersized but had, according to Rankin Kellogg, the biggest heart on the team. He was a three-time 20-game winner and an integral part of both the 1922 and 1927 Philadelphia championships. If anyone could keep their hopes alive, it was Ross.

Bobby played with half an eye on the scoreboard. The Gothams were in Pittsburgh, taking on the Miners. Unfortunately for the Keystones, the Miners were not particularly good that season, mired in 7th place ahead of only the St. Louis Pioneers. A Gothams win would move them one step closer to the pennant - Philadelphia could win all their games, but if the Gothams won just two of their final five contests, the pennant was theirs regardless of what Bobby and his team mates did.

The first inning was quiet. Al Wheeler lifted a high fly that Bobby backpedaled on before making the routine catch. That ended the top of the first. He was hitting third, with Kellogg behind him. In the dugout Kellogg reminded him to go easy, and play this just like any other game. "Don't put any extra pressure on yourself," the star first baseman told him and added, "Just do your best, Bob."

Bobby ripped a double in his first at-bat and came around on a single to Kellogg, sliding across the plate to make it 1-0 Philadelphia. The lead held for three innings, before disaster struck in the top of the fifth. Ross walked both Bill Groom and Frank Vance, then Wheeler stepped in and delivered his 22nd home run of the season, a screaming liner that was still going up as it flew over Bobby's head and into the right-field seats. Bobby had barely moved, knowing it was going out the moment it came off the bat.

He and his team mates weren't having much luck against Calfee. The wily veteran kept even Rankin Kellogg off balance and the game remained 3-1 into the eighth. Bobby, now 1-for-3, stepped in for this fourth at-bat leading off the inning. Calfee was starting to look a bit tired and Bobby noted that his fastball had a lost a little something. Bobby sat on it and drilled a 2-0 offering off the right-center field wall. He sprinted out of the box as if his life depended on it, rounding first before the sound of the ball rebounding off the fence had finished echoing in the big ballpark, and was rounding second as the Dynamos centerfielder, Bill Groom, grabbed the ball and turned to fire it to third. Bobby slid in hard, feeling his spike catch the bag just before Vance slapped the tag on him. Safe - his 19th triple of the season. Best of all, it brought Kellogg to the plate as the potential tying run.

Kellogg connected solidly too, but unfortunately he was just a bit under it and the ball soared high and deep to right - but not deep enough. Wheeler circled under it and caught it two-handed. Then he unleashed a hard throw towards the plate as Bobby raced home after tagging up. He slid in hard again, and again just beat the throw. He was safe and it was now 3-2. Bobby popped up, clapping his hands and slapped Kellogg on the back as the pair headed to the dugout.

But unfortunately that was the best the Keystones could do. Ross allowed a run in the ninth and Calfee finished the game in the home half, giving Detroit a 4-2 win. The Gothams had also won in Pittsburgh and Bobby realized they were now probably celebrating their pennant in the visitor's clubhouse at Fitzpatrick Park.

Kellogg sat down beside Bobby in the clubhouse, patted him on the back and said, "Bob, you're just 20 years old. We didn't get it done this year, but I guarantee you this - we will win some pennants before we're done."

That made Bobby feel a little better. Then he started asking around to see if anyone knew what was going on in Chicago.

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Chicago, IL: Same Day:

Fred shook his head as he looked at the out of town scores on the big manual scoreboard at North Side Park. Bobby's Keystones were down 3-1 and his Cougars were about to take on the Saints. A pennant seemed a foregone conclusion at this point. The Baltimore Cannons had been game competitors and the New York Stars & Brooklyn Kings had both given Chicago a scare or two, but the Cougars were simply too good to let this one get away. One win. That's all it would take, is just one win in a week in which they'd be playing their final four games against sixth-place Montreal.

Dick Lyons was taking the ball this afternoon and that made Fred extremely confident. Though injuries had cost him upwards of forty games this season, his time on the bench had allowed him to sit with his pitchers all game long on days when they were not on the mound. This gave him a lot of insight into each guy and when he returned to the lineup, the battery was as sympatico as it could possibly be, regardless of which of the hurlers was tossing that day.

Lyons came in with a 16-7 record and an ERA hovering in the middle threes. Though Fred privately thought Lyons was the club's best pitcher, Jim Crawford's numbers were slightly better. It'd be up to the skipper to determine who would take the ball first in the presumptive World Championship Series matchup with - presumably - New York, but Fred knew who he'd want out there: Dick Lyons. Crawford was one of Fred's best friends on the club, but Lyons was a consummate pro and had a killer instinct to boot.

Lyons was not sharp and looked shaky right from the first pitch, making Fred question his judgement. But it didn't really matter because the Cougars torched Saints starter Rich Fisher as well as the two relievers who followed him. Lyons ended up surrendering seven runs in seven innings, with 14 hits allowed, one walk and three strikeouts. But the offense was simply too much as the Cougars doubled up on the Saints to earn a 14-7 win and clinch their first pennant since 1922.

Fred had himself a game at the dish, going 2-for-3 with a double, walking twice, scoring twice and driving in a run. 3B John Kincaid was the big hero, going 5-for-6 with a triple and three runs scored. Cy Bryant went 3-for-5, Tom Taylor homered and Vince York had a pair of RBIs. North Side Park erupted as the fans went berserk in celebrating the fact that their Cougars were going to be playing for the world championship.

Fred was sad that Bobby's club wouldn't be the opponent. But then he realized he also felt a little relieved; beating his brother would have been satisfying, but he might have felt some sympathy for Bobby. There would be no such qualms in beating the Gothams - assuming that they actually did win - who also clinched that day.

Nothing could take the shine off Fred's bouyant mood in the clubhouse, not even having to answer questions from John Brinker, who continued to follow Fred even though Tom - and now Bobby - were both finished for the year.


.

[legendsport]

New York, NY: October 7, 1931:

"I love this view, Freddie. You need to get traded to New York."

Fred Barrell lay sprawled across the bed in their 17th floor hotel room in the nation's largest city. He rolled over and sat up, releasing a small groan as he did. The aches and pains of another long baseball season were always waiting to remind him that perhaps man wasn't meant to squat behind another man wielding a large and hard stick of wood while a third threw a hard, round object at him at speeds sometimes approaching 100 miles per hour. Foul tips, wild pitches, runners coming in spikes high.... ah, the glorious life of a FABL catcher.

"It doesn't work like that..." he told his wife.

"What?" she asked, without bothering to turn around as she stared out at Central Park.

"I can't just demand to be traded. Besides, we're one game away from winning the World Championship. Do you think the Cougars would ever consider trading me?"

Now she turned and threw him a look dripping with disdain. "I suppose it would depend on what the other team was offering, don't you think?"

Fred shook his head. "Yeah, that's true. But I like it just fine in Chicago."

Tillie narrowed her eyes and said, "But you grew up here, right?"

"No. I was born in Brooklyn, but I grew up... mostly... in Georgia. You know that."

"Brooklyn is part of New York," she shot back.

"Technically, but don't tell the people of Brooklyn that," he answered and laughed.

"Anyway, it's a moot point. I have a game in..." he looked around for his watch. "Where's my watch?" he asked.

Tillie shrugged. "I don't know. A lot of things got thrown around when we got back here last night."

That was true. Fred and Tillie had gone straight to the hotel after the train had arrived at Penn Station. They were still fairly new to married life and still couldn't quite keep their hands off each other. Fred dug around in a pile of discarded clothes and found his watch. He examined the band - it was a wristwatch - to see if it was damaged. Tillie had nearly torn it off his arm the night before.

"I hope you didn't break this thing. It was a gift from my father, you know," he groused.

He looked at the time and groaned again. "I need to get to the Oval. The old man will be on my case if I'm late for batting practice."

"With the way you're hitting, he shouldn't worry," Tillie told him.

Fred stood up and kissed her. "You know something? I think you know more about baseball than some of my team mates."

"That, my dear," she said as she put her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss before continuing, "is because I've always had a thing for ballplayers."

Fred laughed and said, "You don't say..."

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Fred got a bit of a shiver when he stepped out onto the field at Bigsby Oval. It was never far from the thoughts of Fred, or his brothers, that this was where his father's baseball dream had ended. Bobby, playing in the Federal, had gotten a decent dose of the Oval that season and had told Fred it was a bit spooky thinking about the story of what had happened to Rufus long before any of his sons was born. But Rufus himself just told his boys, "It's just a ballpark. A nice, old one, with a lot of history - both good and bad - but still, just a ballpark."

The place was old and though it had been redone at least a couple of times, Fred knew that this diamond had been used for pro baseball for something like fifty years now. "I wonder if the Gothams will ever move out of this mausoleum," he said to John Kincaid as they walked towards the batting cage.

"Not as long as the Bigsbys own the team," Kincaid said. The Cougars' third baseman had been a Gotham himself and knew of what he was speaking. Fred, and many of his team mates, had thoroughly grilled Kincaid on the Gothams, as he'd been there until an offseason deal in the 1929-30 offseason. Many of the current Gothams had been his team mates.

After batting practice, Fred and some of his team mates lurked in the dugout, watching Max Morris hit. The big slugger's looping, uppercut swing was a thing of strange beauty. Few other ballplayers could emulate it. Bobby and his team mate Rankin Kellogg both had great power, but Morris was otherworldly. He was one of the few Gothams Kincaid hadn't played with, having just joined New York after many years in St. Louis. "That guy is something else," Kincaid told Fred. "When I was over here and he was with the Pioneers, I always knew he wouldn't hit it my way." Morris was a dead-pull lefty. "So I could really enjoy watching him hit."

After watching Morris for a few minutes, they adjourned to the clubhouse. Some of the guys ate, others tried to nap. Fred was always a bundle of nervous energy before the game. He went and sought out Max Wilder who was going to be the Cougars starter for today's game: game six of the World Championship Series.

The Cougars led the series 3-2. The battle had begun in New York. The Gothams drew first blood with a 4-3 win behind ace Jim Lonardo in game one. Fred's buddy Jim Crawford had gone for the Cougars and Chicago might have won had Kincaid not booted a couple of grounders (jitters at facing his old club perhaps) which led to two unearned runs. With Lonardo pitching, those extra runs were the difference. Fred had played well, going 3-for-4 with a double, a run scored and an RBI.

Chicago had bounced back hard in game two, trouncing the Gothams 11-3 as they pounded Walter Murphy. Fred again had a 3-for-4 day, adding a walk and scored three runs while driving in two. He was red-hot and riding high. The teams had then taken separate trains to Chicago (no fraternizing with the enemy) where the Cougars would host the next three games. The home team took game three by a 4-3 final. Fred had another hit, but his team mates did most of the damage against Hardin Bates. Dick Lyons got the win and the way things lined up, he'd likely be the game seven starter if things went that far. Fred hoped it didn't, but knowing Lyons would get the ball made him feel better about the possibility.

Game four saw Lonardo back on the hill for New York and he won again, this time by a 9-3 margin as Dick Luedtke - like Kincaid an ex-Gotham - pitched poorly. That tied things up at two games apiece and the Cougars had one more home game to earn an edge before the clubs headed back to New York.

Jim Crawford faced Al Allen in game five and Crawford pitched the game of his life in a 4-0 whitewashing that pushed the Cougars to the verge of a championship. Fred went 3-for-4 again, and both scored and drove in a run. Tom Taylor, Vince York, John Kincaid and Russ Combs all had a pair of hits as well. Al Allen just didn't pitch very well.

Now it was time for game six... a win here and Fred would earn family bragging rights as the first Barrell to win a FABL championship. Sure, Jack had won the Challenge Cup, and both Joe and Rollie's teams had won whatever passed for the championship of pro football, but that wasn't baseball, which was almost a religion for the Barrell family.

Everything went to plan. Fred and Wilder, now both having experience against the loaded Gothams lineup, had strategies for everyone - even Max Morris. And they needed it in what turned out to be a nail-biting pitcher's duel. Hardin Bates pitched his heart out for the Gothams. But Fred remained red hot, racking up yet another 3-for-4 performance in leading the Cougars to a 2-1 win and the championship.

After celebrating on the field, Fred and his team mates burst into the small visitor's clubhouse to continue the party. There Fred discovered that he'd been named the most valuable player of the Series. His batting average was an amazing .609 as he hit safely in all six games, and drove in four runs. He and Tillie celebrated that night, both publicly with his team and, later, privately in their hotel room.

.